One Too Many

I had this buddy named Larry. And Larry liked to drink.

More importantly, he had a girlfriend named Georgia he enjoyed tending to with his fists.

I’ve known Larry as long as I’ve known how to read. It’s not your ordinary friendship. Not in the everyday sense of the term. I’m always there for him when he screws up. He’s nowhere around when I need him. One-sided would be a good descriptor, so, let’s use that one.

I didn’t kill him because he beat on Georgia. Her black eyes and swollen lips only played a small part in his demise.

***

Friday night–date night to be exact–and I was trolling with another would-be bedfellow through the streets of San Fran. Larry dragged Georgia by her wrist as we crossed busy streets and pushed through the late night clubbers massing for a good time.

“Where the fuck are you taking us?” Larry growled from behind me. His gut had grown large with his constant imbibing. He started wheezing because of it.

“New club on fifth,” I told him.

“Likely a butt barn.”

“Does he always talk to you like that?” my new date asked. If I could remember her name, I would tell you. Let’s call her Red. She was a ginger. I recall that much about her.

“He grows on you.”

Georgia spoke for the first time that night. “You’re hurting my wrist,”

“Yeah, yeah.” Larry laughed. “So, what’s this place called, Tony?”

“Chums.” I didn’t really know if that was the name of the place, but it sounded right. It didn’t matter anyway. When you murder your life long best friend, you tend to ignore the small details of the evening.

Larry’s throat melted before my eyes. It was kinda cool.

The club was empty. A lone bartender–some fat broad with tits hanging out the bottom of her shirt–asked us what we were drinking. Larry ordered a double of whatever was going to “fuck him up the fastest” and I asked for a whiskey sour. The girls ordered something, but that, too, got lost in the details.

The massive barkeep pulled down the required bottles and went about making our order.

Red said. “Smells funny in here.”

I nodded.

Larry told my date, “Just your upper lip, darlin’.”

Red looked at me as if I should do something. I shrugged.

“Well fuck this,” Red belted before leaving me alone at the bar. One less witness. I was fine with that.

His fucking cheeks were smoking. Never seen anything like it.

Larry was shitfaced long before I finished my second drink. Georgia leaned on the bar between us, eyes heavy from the alcohol and puffy from the abuse. She looked forlorn, distant. It made me want to hug her.

I didn’t.

Larry got up and stumbled towards the bathroom. I made my move.

Excusing myself from the bar – not that Georgia really noticed – I followed Larry to the little boy’s room. Walking in shortly after he did, I found him posted up against the wall at the urinals. His mammoth gut filled the tank. One hand held his hose while the other palm propped him up against the wallpaper.

Larry coughed, asked, “I ever tell you I fucked your sister?”  His stream hitched and urine splashed onto the tops of his shoes before he corrected it.

Even though he wasn’t looking at me, I shook my head.

“Sure did,” he responded, as if he could see me. “Stuck it so far up her ass, she was shittin’ soldiers for a week.”

Larry zipped up and turned to me. His eyes were slants and his second chin was shaking from the effort of breathing.

“Ain’t you gonna piss?”

“Nope.”

“You ain’t gonna try that queer shit; are you? Cause-”

“I got something for you.”

“I told you I don’t-”

When I pulled the flask from my back pocket, Larry finally shut the hell up.

“What’s that?”

“Something hard.”

“For me? You shouldn’t have.” Larry laughed. He snatched the silver container from my hand. “This that moonshine you been tellin’ me about?”

I nodded.

“Fuckin’-A-right, Tony. Good looking out.”

Larry unscrewed the cap and slammed the opening to his lips so hard I heard the metal tink! against his teeth.

I waited for it to take effect.

I imagine he would have screamed if he’d been able to, but his tongue was too busy dissolving and running out of his mouth for it to form any coherent sounds. His teeth fell from his gaping maw, making soft clicking sounds as they bounced off the tile. He tried to lurch at me when his cheeks became see-through, but I pushed him back into the same urinal he’d just pissed in with a well placed tennis shoe to the gut.

He reached for his face, but that only allowed the substance to spread to his hands. Larry began to spit, trying to get rid of the stuff, but his lips fell off before he could. There was a gurgling sound, a soft pop, and then a hole opened in his trachea. A soup of red, white and pink ran from the opening like a faucet.

His death was much more fun that I had imagined it would be.

Larry’s eyes asked why just before the life ran from him. I meant to tell him “just because”, but what came out was a confession of sorts.

“Did I mention I got that job as a chemistry teacher? That might explain the sulfuric acid.”

***

I walked Georgia home that evening. Kissing her on the cheek, I told her goodnight.

“Where’s Larry?” she finally asked. Her drunken gaze swung left to right. She swayed unsteadily.

I confided in her. “He’s dead.”

She laughed before saying. “Shit! Don’t I fucking wish!”

The End