Working in a Nightclub
I was washing glasses at the end of night, trying to get them done as quickly as possible so I could get that sweet amber nectar they bribed me with down my throat. One of the glass collectors had deposited a pint of puke - literally, a pint glass filled with puke - which I was leaving until last. It stood at the corner, pulsating, radiating noxious fumes.

Various shambling verbally-incontinent and emotionally crippled zombies shuffled all-too-slowly towards the door. One particular specimen was spectacularly drunk, barely able to walk (the floor seemingly attempting to go vertical), but he made it over to the corner of the bar, where I was then enslaved.

"Alright mate? Can I get a pint of water?" he monged.

Bloody drunks at the end of the night. It was already half-past three, the limit of the time the owner would pay us slavelings. "Give me a minute, mate, I'll just finish these glasses," I said.

I got my head down, avoiding eye contact with rabid drunks hoping for more intoxicants. I detected some movement, and looked up.

He had necked the pint of puke. He'd mistaken it for water, and downed it.

I threw up.
(McChinaman banned, Fri 10 Apr 2009, 10:23, Reply)