One bourbon, one scotch, one flash

One bourbon, one scotch, one flash
Well I ain't seen my fiction since I don't know when
I've been drinking language, clauses, verb and noun
Gonna get typed man I'm gonna get loose
Need me a written shot of that juice
Gonna get drunk don't you have no crash
I want one bourbon, one scotch and one flash
One bourbon, one scotch, one flash

As the sixth shot of whisky burnt its way down, I suddenly remembered what I left the house for. The frigid, windy troposphere, an ineffectual balm for the post-cataract wasteland that was my throat, was kind enough to keep me upright as long as I continued to fall forward. The incessant throb in my head provided a steady backbeat for the sweet, angular measures she had managed to wrest from my out-of-tune Fender last night -- no, Thursday -- which was when? -- their seductive souvenirs stringing down my spinal column to the ground beneath my shuffling feet. It was a wonder I didn't end up face first in a roadside snow -- 'drift' really didn't do the scene justice. Imagine a lush, fertile valley and replace green with white, lots of white. Oh, and the arctic blasting, can't forget that.

The whitewash of the town was unyielding in its ferocity, this century's storm of the century, copyrighted Doppler whatever. The nearly month-long directive to stay inside for safety's sake was laughable as no authority figure would dare venture out into this to make an arrest. The authorities stopped pulling bodies over a week ago. No point in clearing out seven feet of snow when eight would come down in an instant. A pale rider, indeed.

The grinding hum of plows bisecting the city via its main road was the only discernible noise within the wash of the howl from the north. But I had to go, only because it had taken so long to remember why.

How I managed to not end up one of those bodies left buried until the snows ceased, especially in my inebriated state, only the indifferent cosmos can answer and she never picks up her phone. But I know he will.

Fate's toothy grin cast a welcome Klieg upon a workable path. Wiping my eyes, I carefully trudged through the snow. The warm, comforting glow of the whisky was fading; I now began to understand just how frigid and death-haunted the world had become. As the last knock rung into silence, plow-driven powder and opaque blades of ice circumscribed my frozen, tingling soles. I looked back, their replacements falling from the sky with prodigious speed. The tumbler moved, and the door opened.

"Yes?"

The shoulder-to-shoulder collision keeping me upright just enough to track slushy gunk over the poorly-aged, pancaked carpet, I sloughed in the nearest chair I could find.

"What the hell? Who are you? Get out of my house or I'm calling the cops."

My boots, disembarking upon the edge of a dark brown futon, began pooling their melt in the buttoned depressions as I whipped out my cell and dialed.

"Look, Mac, no mumbrusfuckng copsagonna comminthiswether."

"I, I've got a gun."

"Noyadont."

It wasn't a game of who would blink first. My lids were still frozen open.

"I'm gonna get --"

"Yeahshme. Hestilalive."

The soft, velvety crumple of a blundering, sock-footed sprint up the stairs only added to the gloom of the poorly-lit chamber. A loud report broke it.

I guess he did have a gun.