Whisky By D.I. Jolly
Oliver smiled to himself as he joined the line at the bank. Then quietly, and without drawing attention to himself, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small silver flask. He didn’t need a lot, but just enough to keep him level. It was his own blend made from a few choice whiskies, and he rarely had less than four decanters full, plus the flask, which never left his side. Since the rise in popularity of the drink, Oliver found it started to lose the potency he needed, and so got into the habit of combining a few variations to get what he wanted. It wasn’t perfect but it did the trick.
As the line crept forward and time seemed to slow to a stop, he took another sip and let his mind wander as far into a daydream as it could without actually falling asleep. He was so out of it that it took him a minute to realise people were looking nervously around and even then it wasn’t until the sound of the gunshot echoed through the room that he realised something was wrong.
“Everyone get down on the ground now!”
Another shot filled the air along with a few scared screams and cries as everyone slowly knelt and lay down. Oliver watched the four men in all black clothes rush past him towards the teller desks, and forced himself to stay calm as they pointed their guns at the poor woman, screaming orders at her. It didn’t take long for her nerve to break and she fell backwards away from her desk crying and shaking. One of the men in frustration pointed his gun at the divider glass and pulled his trigger. Hoping to shock and scare the woman back into action, but what it actually did was set off the bank security system. Giant iron shutters slammed down over the front doors and windows, the vaults all slammed on time locks and what was supposed to be a simple clearing out of the cash drawers was now a hostage situation.
The gravity of it all seemed to dawn on hostage and captor at the same time and Oliver found himself resisting the urge to go for the flask, and instead took a few long slow breaths to steady his nerves. After a few minutes of intense angry discussion, the leader climbed up onto a table and yelled,
“Alright everyone things have clearly changed, now I want you all to quietly get up and follow Tweedles Dumb and Dee with the shotguns, into the back room. If anyone makes a move or complains, your name followed by the words, tragically lost their lives, will be read out on the news tonight, I promise.”
The two men started pulling people to their feet and forcing them to move. Oliver managed to stand before being manhandled and followed the crowd into the back, where the two men started going through everyone’s pockets and pulling out any valuables. Reflex set in and Oliver caught the man’s arm as he tried to pull out his flask. Quick as a flash there was a shotgun barrel in his face.
“No heroes here buddy.”
“I wouldn’t take that if I was you.”
The two men looked at each other and smiled, and suddenly the butt of one of the guns slammed against Oliver’s face knocking him to the ground. In his daze, he felt a hand go into his jacket to pull out the flask, then heard laughter walking away. The door locked, and the hostages sat scared and quietly unsure of what would happen next.
As the blur faded it gave way to a white-hot anger that swum through Oliver’s veins. It moved in him and started pushing his mind to do things he really didn’t want to do. Instinctively he reached for the flask that was no longer there and let out a shaky breath. This drew scared looks from the other hostages who had started to slowly inch away from him. Normally he didn’t like drawing attention to himself but found he cared less and less about what the others thought, and more and more about his flask. After a few more staggered breaths he decided there was nothing else for it, and got to his feet. He banged on the door.
“Hey, Tweedles, give me back my flask!”
On the other side of the door he could hear a few confused grunts followed by what sounded like an explanation and then the click as the door unlocked. It burst inwards knocking Oliver back a few steps. In front of him in the now open doorway stood the leader holding his flask.
“This what you want?”
He then pulled open the lid and Oliver stared in shock and horror as he downed the last of the whisky, then threw the empty flask at him.
“There you go.”
The flask bounced off Oliver’s chest and clanged against the floor. For a moment the whole world stood still, then Oliver flew forward grabbed the man by the arm and the hair as he slammed against him, sinking his elongating teeth into his neck as they hit the back wall. With a ferocious roar he flicked his head to the side and ripped out the man’s throat. The other three gunmen stared in terror as their leader dropped gurgling to the floor. Oliver turned his green eyes towards them and as they opened fire he moved like a vicious whirlwind, biting and ripping and clawing.
As the screams and gunfire echoed out into the street, the police quickly got permission to rip down the barriers and storm the building, but all they found were parts of people, and a large black wolf sitting on the floor licking himself, wondering why more people didn’t know that whisky was actually created as a suppressor for lycanthropy, and not a drink to get drunk on.