Who: Alcohol (aquavitae) What: About that time you hired someone to set me on fire. When: Friday afternoon. Where: Big T's office in Washington, DC. Warnings: None.
Alcohol showed at Big Tobacco's office Friday afternoon, during that breath after corporate lunch as everyone prepared to step into their next uber-important meetings. She strutted across his floor without a word -- there were stares for the daisy dukes she wore, the cowboy boots, the tank top (cleavage ahoy) with the trucker's plaid shirt over it -- but anyone who dared open their mouth to halt her progress received a raised hand, a silent "bitch, I will drown you in your own vomit".
It was blatantly unprofessional and awkward as hell, but that's Mr. Reynolds and that's Ms. Ethel: unprofessional, awkward, shouty and strangely compelling despite all the negatives.
When she took long-legged strides into his office, she didn't stop 'til she stood in front of Benny. Then she wordlessly set a half-full 40 on his desk, going through the elaborate act of lighting a cigarette and taking a bone-deep drag -- the click of the lighter was audible, as was the crackle-hiss of tobacco while it was eaten alive by air and fire. (And did Al look a little crispy around the edges herself? Maybe she did.) She blew smoke out of the side of her mouth like a 1950s housewife, dropping the cigarette butt-first into the bottle of booze. There, a statement.
A sunny smile just for him while one-half of the most fucked-up relationship in the world circled 'round Big T's desk before Alcohol cold-cocked the sonuvabitch. She followed it with an affectionate kiss to his cheek, spun on her boot heel and left. Over her shoulder (not that anyone in their right mind would be watching her shoulders on her way out of a room), Al threw out a merry "I poured Bordeaux over the apartment, pissed in your car, and Whitey and I are going line-dancing in Austin. Don't wait up, fucker."