Satan's Whiskers - A Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge

Another Friday, another Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge. This week, the challenge is to name your story after a cocktail, and to keep the whole thing under 500 words total without it being a vignette. Oh that Mr. Wendig, always with the inspiring challenges.

So, without further ado, and weighing in at 496 words, I present:


Satan's Whiskers - 4/8/2011

“What’re you having?” It was impossible to not look up at the sound of that sweet, honeyed voice. The dame behind the bar, as much a treat on the eyes as her voice was to the ears, had a soft smirk on her face, like she already knew the answer. She didn’t look like she should be tending the bar. No, she looked like she should be up on stage; all eyes on her, hoping to catch a glimpse of more than thigh as her leg slipped between the folds of the sequined red dress that fit her like a glove.

“Vodka martini, stirred.” My eyes fell to her chest as I spoke. Not that I wanted to be that guy, it was just the way her lines led the gaze. I wasn’t fooling myself, I knew a guy like me had no chance with a girl like her.

“Vodka martini? That’s so dull...how about something more fun?” Her voice brought my gaze back up to those lovely green eyes of hers.

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Satan’s Whiskers, with a kick.” The smirk turned into a devilish smile. I suddenly wished it was all she was wearing.

“You buyin’?” That’s right, play it cool Vincent. No need to let her know what you’re imagining her doing.

“Well, I will if you’re willing to make it interesting...” Her hand slid over the bar and gently settled over mine. It was soft and smooth. I wondered what it would feel like a bit lower.

“And how would we do that?”

“I pour the drink. If you can handle it, kick and all, without flinching then I’m yours for the rest of the night. Any way you want me...”

I cleared my throat as visions filled my head. “And if I lose?”

“How about...your soul?”

I laughed, “Don’t believe in them, Lady.”

“Well, if you don’t believe in them, than all you’re doing is wagering nothing against a night of whatever you want. So, how about it?” She wasn’t talking anymore. As close as she was, she didn’t need to talk for me to hear her. Her breath was warm against my lips. It smelled like peaches.

“Sure, I’ll bite. Let’s do this.”

She smiled and was suddenly all business. Several bottles appeared in her skilled hands and poured their contents into the shaker along with some ice. She shook the shaker twice, then poured the drink into a tall glass. I took a testing sniff; it smelled like oranges. “Drink up, unless you want to forfeit?” The twinkle in her eye sent a cold shiver down my spine, but a bet was a bet.

“Bottom’s up!” As I poured the contents of the glass down my throat, I felt her foot hit my leg under the bar. Instinct took over, and my body reacted, spitting some of the liquid up. She laughed with that honeyed voice and beckoned with a finger. Everything went cold.

Recipe

• 1 oz gin
• 1/2 oz Grand Marnier
• 1 oz dry vermouth
• 1 oz sweet vermouth
• 1 oz orange juice
• 2 dashes orange bitters