Poison

The poison spread quickly.  The man, barely more than a child, staggered at the edge of the bar.  Anyone seeing him assumed it was alcohol.  They were wrong.  It was poison, swift acting, burning through his veins, cutting his tissues, his organs.  He pissed himself, first.  His fingers went into spasms.  He tried to hold himself upright, tried to grab the brass railing that surrounded the bar, tried not to puke his guts up all over the things he couldn’t really see anymore.

The poison brought immense pain, like burning needles being stabbed repeatedly into his arms, his balls, his eyes.  By the time he cried out, by the time he let loose with the roiling mess coming up his throat, people had already started backing away.  The band had stopped.  Someone, somewhere, said, “Get an ambulance,” or “Call 911,” something along those lines, but the man at the bar didn’t hear anything anymore.  The man at the bar saw only the needle that had delivered the poison to him.  He saw only the pretty, perfect fingers that had held the needle.  He saw only the smile, those white teeth, those red lips, those dark, shadowy eyes.

Then he saw nothing at all.  He was left with only the pain, and more pain, and a touch of agony on top of that.  It hurt through the bone.  It felt like muscles being flayed, every layer all at the same time.  It felt like his lungs shriveling to dry, empty potato sacks, useless for breathing, useless for much of anything.

But he did not die.  No, the poisoned man fell into a dream.

And in the dream, he saw the woman, the red dress, the deep cleavage, all those curves, and the needle on the table beside her.  She stood there, smiling with all those teeth, looking straight at him with those eyes, and then she spoke with that ultra-erotic, sensual, promise-making voice.  “Do you want to know a secret?”

Pain broke through the dream.  He wanted desperately to know her secret.  He wanted, even, to know her name.  He nodded, once, in a way that might look like he was trying to play it cool.  In fact, it hurt too much to repeat the motion.

“There’s an antidote,” she said.

He reached toward her, tried to step.  In this dream, the bar was empty, she stood beside a booth, the needle winked at him as it reflected strobe lights in various colors.  Stained glass letters lined the ceiling, all the same letter, all a V, which once meant something here but no longer.  The mirror behind the bar shined dully, smeared by something oily and translucent.  There was a bartender, another woman, almost as bone-shockingly attractive as the one with the needle, but with blonde hair, and a black dress.  She was mixing something.

“You want the antidote, don’t you?” the needle woman asked.

“Yes.”  Words hurt, too.  He’d have to stop that.

“Would you do anything for the antidote?”

“Yes.”

“What if the antidote changes you,” she said.  “What if it makes you something you don’t want to be?  Would you still take the antidote?”

Anger overrode pain.  “Give me the damn antidote!”

She smiled.  Damn teeth again.  “Linda, if you would.”

The blonde finished the drink, poured it out of the shaker and into a shot glass.  The needle woman took it and handed it to the poisoned man.

His hand shook as he took it.

His mouth almost didn’t close when he swallowed the drink.  It tasted like liquid crap.  He held it down.

“Good,” the woman said, relieving him of the shot glass.  “And good luck.”

“What?”

The poisoned man opened his eyes.  The band had started again, or it had never stopped.  He reached for his belly, where the needle had gone in so unexpectedly.  It ached.  He hadn’t vomited, hadn’t even fallen, though people around him had given him some space.

The woman stood there still.  The blonde bartender, Linda, however, had been only in the dream.

“What did you do to me?” he asked.

She smiled.  She whispered, “I made you something.”

“What?”

“Something else.”

“Am I dead?”

“No.”

“Am I living?”

“Of course.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Yeah, it’ll do that,” the woman said.  “You might grab some wings or pizza on the way out.”

“What happens now?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Why me?”

“If you think there’s an answer to that,” she said, “I picked the wrong man.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Be what I made you.”

He glared at her.  She leaned close, touched his ear with her lips, and said, “Be something else.”

She kissed his neck then, somewhat dispassionately, and walked away.  He watched her walk.  He liked the way she walked.  He thought he should follow her, but didn’t.  He needed to clear his head.  So he went outside anyhow, following her to the street, though she was gone now, gone forever, little more than a dream.  The ache had faded somewhat.  The air chilled him.  He took a deep breath, filled his lungs, closed his eyes and noted the distinct smells, trash, body odor, an elaborate mixture of perfumes and colognes, vanilla, cinnamon, cloves, cigarettes, stale beer, stagnant water in the gutter, flowers, exhaust, gunpowder, poison.

Poison.

His stomach lurched, and he opened his eyes from another dream.  He lay on the floor, unable to move, unable to close his eyes, seeing only the needle woman staring down at him wearing the same horrified expression everyone else wore.  The pain returned, albeit dully, but he had neither strength of muscle nor strength of will.

Linda, the blonde bartender, stood behind the needle woman, also smiling, and when she whispered into the needle woman’s ear he was the only other person to hear the words.  “You were right,” she said.  “We’ll never find a man strong enough.”

Then the poisoned man succumbed, finally, and died.

As emergency personnel arrived, sirens blaring, lights flashing, the two women walked out of the bar holding hands.  The two women left the bar disappointed.  The two women left the bar and would, ultimately, try again.