Tom Andrews and I met over cocktails. (On Twitter). He made fun of my love of girly martinis, pointing out that a "real" martini is gin, vermouth and an olive, with no apples or tinis anywhere in sight.
I decided to check out his website and was thrilled to find out---not only is he a martini-snob, but he has a ridiculously cool headshot....
....and, he is the author of some seriously quirky and deranged flash fiction. According to Wikipedia, flash fiction is "a style of fictional literature or fiction of extreme brevity." In other words, a super quickie. (Somewhere between about 50-1000 words).
According to Tom's bio, he specializes in "short stories, flash fiction and tales of the bizarre." Influences on his writing include F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, and Quentin Tarantino. (Which I don't find surprising in the least).
Since I love quirky, deranged stuff, I am totally digging his stories. They are not for the faint of heart. After reading one of his recent works, Nonpareil, I developed a fear of pies.
Obviously inspired by the mix of topics on my blog (romance, alcoholic beverages, beard-worship, and general pandemonium), Tom has written an original piece just for The Martini Club! So here it is...an original story by Tom Andrews, aptly titled Cocktail (the movie). He has included a recipe for a "holy manhattan" in here, too. Enjoy!
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Cocktail (the movie)
by Tom Andrews
“Kookle-dicky-do!” cried the guard-chicken that was stationed outside the entrance to little Mikey Nitrous' underground love-bunker. “Kookle-dicky-do!”
Little Mikey Nitrous figured that it must be his cherry-pickers returning from their labors, and he was right. Squawkey, Mutt, and Jivaro, Mikey's three classmates and henchmen, had just returned from their cherry-seeking expedition to the maraschino bogs of Weaverton, and their cherry sacks were stuffed and bulging. Jivaro even walked with a limp, so full was his sack.
“Nice job, my pale-faced homies,” said little Mikey, inspecting the cherry haul. “There is hope for my plan.” He returned to a drawing board full of calculations and figures, and with satisfied groans the cherry-pickers emptied their sacks into professionally-prepared cherry jars.
“Mikey,” asked Mutt, his pasty buttocks jiggling as he shook his cherry sack, “what are we doin' with all of these cherries, again?”
“They are the vital ingredients in the potion I must serve to the captive,” responded little Mikey, his eyes glowing. “If I ever wish to achieve my goal, I must have cherries fresh from the maraschino bogs!”
Their cherry sacks now emptied, Squawkey, Mutt, and Jivaro now trundled their pasty little behinds out of the underground love-bunker and up to the tree house for a nice afternoon of iced tea and Maj-Jongg. Mikey sat up from his calculations, switched on an overhead projector, and stared at the screen. He read aloud, letting every word soak into his memory:
“Two ounces of bourbon. Shaka-laka hamm.” He shook his pizanga to the left.
“A half-ounce of sweet vermouth. Shaka-laka hula. ” He shook his pizanga to the right.
“A dash of bitters. Shaka-lima holy hobbit.” He shook his pizanga in a circular pattern.
“Pour over cracked ice and stir. Shit-be dangle hobby-hole.” He let his pizanga go limp and rested it on the counter.
“Strain into a cocktail glass and garnish with the ever-loving holy cherries from the maraschino bogs of Weaverton. Hebbede, hobbede, habbede hucker-mother futher-lover.” Little Mikey Nitrous pranced in a circle as he gathered all of his ingredients and then performed the steps just as he had read them. Moments later a holy manhattan stood upon the counter-top, pure in its radiant glory. He picked up the cocktail glass ever so carefully, and strode out of the workroom and down the hallway, ever deeper into his subterranean love-bunker.
As he neared the door to the containment facility, he could hear the strained breathing of his captive. He poked first one, and then both of his beady little eyes over the top of the razor-ribbon-topped containment wall. His captive sat motionless on the ground, her knees pulled up to her chest, her head down and her blond tresses spilling over her arms. Mikey unlocked the door and let himself into her cell.
The prisoner sat up with a start. “What do you want with me?” she cried.
“You, little lady, are going to help me realize my dream!”
“Me? I just want to go back to my electrolysis clinic in peace!”
“Aha, little lady...not before you help me realize my dream! And here is the key component to success!” He reached down and handed her the manhattan. The prisoner suspiciously accepted the drink, holding the stem of the glass between her thumb and forefinger, rotating the glass and inspecting the reddish contents. The fresh Weaverton bog-cherry bounced happily in the bottom.
“Is this a...a...”
“Yes,” said little Mikey, “it is a holy manhattan, garnished with an ever-loving holy cherry from the maraschino bogs of Weaverton.”
“I purely love manhattans,” said the golden-tressed electrolysis technician, her one unclouded eye sparkling like the foil wrapper on a suppository.
“I would only figure that to be the case, knowing, as I do, that electrolysis technicians power their internal engines on the sublime cocktail that is the manhattan. But I also know about the awesome power the bog-cherry imparts to the most sacred cocktail. That is why I have been sending out cherry-pickers every day for weeks in order to gather enough of the fruit of the maraschino bogs of Weaverton – so that I might have libation-offerings of a sufficient caliber and quantity to offer at your altar, oh golden tressed one.” Mikey bowed low.
His captive took a long sip. “Mmmm. Perfect.” She rolled her one good eye back into her head and heaved a contented sigh.
“So...” said little Mikey, rubbing his hands together nervously, “my plan...? My plan to carry out my dreams...my dreams of...of...of...of true love?”
“Well,” said the young lady, draining the glass in a single swallow and holding it out for little Mikey to refill, “it depends.”
“Depends?” said Mikey. “It depends on what?”
“Well, if you can get me another one of those holiest of holy, mother of buddha manhattans,” she said, wiping her lips, “I'll remove every last mother-loving hair from your body...including that long, annoying one that's wiggling off the mole on your left ear.”
“No!” cried little Mikey, bursting into tears, “I want you to reverse the process!”
“What do you mean?”
“The bog cherry is renowned for giving reversal-capabilities to the most gifted electrolysis technicians when consumed in a perfectly mixed manhattan...” said Mikey, “that is what I need...”
“You want me to put hair ON to your body rather than take it off?”
Mikey continued sobbing ever so gently. “I'm the smoothest little boy at school. I can't grow a single whisker,” he answered through his tears, “except for the one on my ear mole, of course. And there is not a single girl who will give me the time of day. How will I ever find a date for the mid-winter pork chop dance?”
The electrolysis artist stood up and put her hand on little Mikey's shoulder. “Hey, it's OK...lots of girls find clean-shaven guys attractive.”
“They do?” asked Mikey.
“Sure,” she said, drawing closer, “in fact, I think you look great with just the one whisker on your ear.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely...and if you bring me another one of these holiest of holy, mother of buddha manhattans ...and bring one for yourself, we could maybe talk about what I should wear to the pork chop dance.”
Mikey was nearly speechless. “Pork...chop...dance...? Really? And we could even dance the slow 'gristle dance' together?”
“Put an extra holy cherry in there and you got a deal,” she said with an alluring wink.
And so it was that joy reigned in the underground love-bunker and little Mikey Nitrous saw light and hope and promise. Unbeknownst to them, Squawkey, Mutt, and Jivaro would soon have smooth, hairless dreams flitting through their noggins. And the friendship that was being forged deep in that underground containment facility could one day grow into the greatest love of all.
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Heeeeeeee! Oh, snap! Love it! My favorite line is "Jivaro even walked with a limp, so full was his sack." Ha! Naughty!
Anyhow, hope you enjoyed this fabulous piece. I will leave you with an excellent photo of Tom enjoying his favorite drink....the classic martini. With nary a jigger of pomegranate juice anywhere in sight.
Sloshy Days!
Penelope
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