Don't Spit in it

It wasn't the classiest bar. The barstools were bare, and the patrons on them weren't donning tuxedos or evening gowns and most weren't even wearing smiles. I stepped up to the plate and made my order. "Gin, on ice. Don't spit in it, please."

He gave me a queer look, then went to work. I slicked my hair back and searched the bar for a shell of a man.

The barman finished my drink and slid it to me. "That was the old bartender." He tried to wink, but closed both eyes, and then he tended someone else down the bar.

I took a sip. No spit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a red-eyed man stumbling out of the bathroom. Bingo.

I went over to him and gave him my best nice guy routine. Told him I owed him a drink, that we made a bet and I lost. He said, "Darn if I don't recall, but I could sure use some wings."

The barman saw my hand in the air and handed me another round, this time with two glasses. While buddy wasn't looking, I slipped the pill into his glass and it fizzed for only a moment before it set, invisible to the world, and down the hatch it went. I sipped on my drink, smiling.

We talked for a while about war and politics and about how life's one big mushroom cloud when he started feeling queasy and said he needed a cab. I flagged the barman, told him I'd take him home, and everyone got grateful.

Only I don't think he liked it as much when he woke up with a gag in his mouth and a price on his head.