Dear Creepypasta [#Wattys2016]

One last drink

Joe slouched happily on his bar stool riding the best buzz of his life. Franky sat next to him, nervously scanning the room.

“Holy shit, Franky. Just…holy shit. There was something in that last one. Dunno what it was but whoo mama! I gotta get me another one of those!”

It was Saturday night and the bar was crowded with twenty and thirty-somethings, a dull roar of conversation filling the air as they joked and flirted. Despite this, Joe was being loud enough to draw some annoyed glares from the patrons closest to where they were sitting. Franky gave the cute blonde next to him an apologetic smile and she rolled her eyes before turning back to the Clint Eastwood lookalike currently chatting her up. Franky swallowed hard.

“Would you shut the fuck up, Joe? First, you can’t have another one of those because you got us kicked out of that bar. Honestly, man, I have no idea how you’ve survived this long the way you act. That chick’s boyfriend is gonna be pissed after what you pulled and I’m not totally sure they didn’t follow us here.”

Joe’s drunken ebullience turned sullen in an instant as he sulkily leaned across the bar, his scowl fixed on the bowl of peanuts resting between them.

“Whatever, Franky. Let ’em come. Flower power back there wants to make an issue of it, he’s more’n welcome to try. I’ll feed his head to his own asshole. Prick has a problem with me, he should learn how to keep a tighter watch of his woman.”

Franky sighed. He’d been out with Joe enough to know there was no reasoning with him when he got like this. “Yeah, I’m sure you would, Joe. Anyway, we should think about getting back to the house. You know how pissed Boris gets when we miss curfew. It’s getting late, and if we don’t get back soon we’re gonna be toast.”

“Awe, Franky, you little bitch. Fuck Boris. You know that asshat just likes to think he’s got control of us. What’s he care if we come in at two or three? No difference. I’m getting another drink before we go.”

Franky reached over and pulled on Joe’s shoulder. “Dammit, Joe, you don’t need another drink! You’re drunk enough as is; any more in you and you’re likely to start something that’ll have us against the whole damn bar! And I don’t care how tough you think you are, if that happens we are going to most likely get the shit kicked out of us! Then we’ll be lucky if we can crawl back to Boris’ place and even luckier if he lets us inside!”

A cold metallic sheen slid over Joe’s eyes and his mouth drew into a hard line as he reached up and took hold of Franky’s wrist in a crushing grip.

“Get your fucking hands off me, Franky.”

Franky let go of Joe’s coat and gulped. “Yeah, sure, Joe. Whatever you say, man.”

A single bead of sweat rolled down Franky’s forehead as Joe increased the pressure of his hold, tight enough to leave bruises. Abruptly, Joe smiled and released Franky’s wrist. “See there? That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now don’t get your panties all in a bunch. One more drink and we’ll head back to the house so old mother Boris won’t be concerned, ok?”

Franky slumped unhappily in his stool rubbing his sore wrist. “Ok. Yeah, ok. One last drink. Just…just try to control yourself would you? For me?”

Joe laughed, “Only for you, Franky! Now then, let’s see; what do I want? Better make it something special since you’re rushing me over here and…what is that smell?”

Franky noticed it too, the scent of fresh bloomed lilacs ever so subtly laced with something muskier. The two men turned to look at the same time and were simultaneously struck, dumbfounded. The woman that stood in the entryway of the bar was a vision. Large almond eyes the color of dark chocolate were set above lips as plump as ripened cherries. A careless tumble of jet black curls framed the incredibly pale skin of her face, hair so thick it seemed to beg a man to run it through his fingers. She was dressed in a modest black dress that nevertheless served to accentuate her soft curves, the effect exponentially more arousing than any of the far more revealing outfits most of the other female patrons were decked out in. The roar of the room had descended to a quiet buzzing. Taking a moment to survey the crowd, the ghost of a smile reached the corners of her mouth before she made her way to the bar, the gentle sway of her hips holding the profound attention of every man in the room as well as the unmasked disgust of many of the women. Sliding smoothly onto a stool ten feet down the bar from Joe and Franky, the spell was abruptly broken and threads of conversation began to pick up again around them.