FLASH FICTION

Let’s Drink to Better Days

Dark sci-fi fantasy

TW: Addiction, alcohol

“Just sit back, relax. Not long now,” said the driver.

Ralph looked to his right. The dancer looked far too relaxed about all of this for his liking. His hand almost reached his mouth before he remembered he didn’t have a bottle in it. He was beginning to tremble. The sweating had started about an hour ago. He could feel his heart pound in his ears and the calmness and acceptance of the dancer were pissing him off — not to mention the odor. Had this man never washed? He smelled of a thousand layers of ball sweat dipped in butt crack sweat baked in a desert sun. The dancer was still, staring ahead, with a slight but steady smile. Ralph fidgeted, shuffled in his seat, and his eyes jumped about, seeming to search for a point of focus and finding none.

The driver was watching him in the rearview mirror. “Sir, do I need to inform you of your contractual agreement?”

“No, no. Fuck no,” said Ralph. “I’m fine, I just, you know, I need… I’m thirsty.”

A bottle of water was suddenly in his face. He followed the hand holding it back to the stinky dancer who smiled politely but said nothing.

“Not what I meant,” said Ralph.

“I know,” said the dancer.

Ralph took the bottle anyway. He didn’t open it, but at least it kept his hands occupied. He took a deep breath. They were both going through this, together. Perhaps it would take his mind off of his own fears if he were to hear about the woes of others. “You’re a dancer, right?” Break the ice with something straightforward and obvious.

“Correct,” said the dancer with a polite head bow.

“What are they curing for you?” asked Ralph. After you break the ice, why not obliterate it, right?

“Isovaleric Acidemia.”

“What’s that?”

“You may have noticed an odor. My body does not work correctly.”

“Oh.” Ralph had a pang of guilt for his earlier thoughts. Wow, this treatment was really progressing quickly if they were now fixing bodies instead of just addictions. “I’m, ahh, just here for, well,” he suddenly felt like an absolute ass for being there to simply stop drinking.

“I know why you are here,” said the dancer. “It’s a great thing to want to be better.”

Ralph smiled. “Thank you.”

“After the treatment, you’ll never need to worry again.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“We are here,” announced the driver.

The two back doors opened simultaneously. A figure on either side in full biohazard gear assisted each of the men from the car. Ralph was encouraged to lay on a stretcher. He did. They strapped him in.

The dancer sat in a wheelchair. They gave him a pillow.

“Hey, what is this?” Ralph called as he lifted his head and pulled against his restraints, his anxiety rising. One of the biohazard figures leaned heavily on Ralph’s forehead and wrapped another restraint around to hold his head down.

“Careful with my new body please,” said the dancer.

“Yes, Sir,” said a deep voice from one of the biohazard suits.

“What the fuck?” screeched Ralph. What was this?

The dancer gestured and they wheeled him to Ralph’s side. “I’m sorry they were not truthful with you,” he said, his face sympathetic as he squeezed Ralph’s arm gently. Ralph tried to pull away, but his restraints kept him firmly in place. “My mind is sharp, yet my body is wasting. Whereas you, my friend, are wasting your body and your mind. So, I’m going to take over.”

Adrenalin shot through Ralph’s body and he pulled against every restraint with all of his effort but to no avail. He had lost his strength long ago with his dignity and pride.

“Shhhh,” soothed the dancer. “I’m going to make you great. You will be famous. You will come from nowhere and be the most renowned and respected dancer in the world.”

“I’m not a dancer.”

The dancer laughed. “Not yet, but I chose you for your potential. You have the inner structure of a dancer. You are young and with my dedication, you will again be healthy. With my knowledge and commitment, your body will be that of a dancer within a year. I’m going to give you the thing you never gave yourself.

“Purpose.”

This Flash Fiction was created from my personal prompt generator. The prompt was: “An alcoholic is spliced with a stinky dancer in a car but it’s a trick.” Yeah, I turned THAT into a story! *mic drop*

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