I gave the General a playful punch in the chest, but I saw him grimace as my fist splashed into a warm liquid. I had a brief fear that I’d become a superhuman monster and I’d punched through a man’s chest, into his heart, but it only turned out to be a zip-lock bag full of whiskey. Really good 25 yr old whiskey the General had put in his breast pocket.
But why?
I deduced that perhaps if the General was to be shot in the heart he wanted the bullet to be blessed with his favorite whiskey. I couldn’t bear to tell him that all of the whiskey would have burned off the bullet before it ever reached his heart. Perchance he was hoping for some of it to spill in? And if he was gut shot; hey a zip-lock bag full of whiskey. Yeah that’s probably it. But why not something nicer like a flask? Maybe this zip-lock whiskey heart bag thing was all new to him, he’d had a fabulous day dream sitting in his minivan in a Taco Bell parking lot, staring into the sun. Or it may be he’s a crazed drunk. But wouldn’t a drunk, even a crazed one, have a flask? Conceivably this was his first day on the crazed, sad, homicidal drunk, General job… hmmm. Perhaps later tonight I would see him at the Liquor Mart down by the clown college on 42cnd. And If I’ve already had a couple I might suggest he just always hug a mug of whiskey in front of his chest at all times like one of them really pleased female actresses on TV.
