Let's make a story

Title says it all

                Throwing her rag on the counter, she jumped over it and peered out the window. Fog and a dead popular alley was all she saw to her eyes. The other businesses had already closed for the night.

                “No, there has to be someone out there,” she muttered, wiping her glasses with her sleeve. “This is the most used alley in the city. If there’s no soul out there, then I’ll drink all my imports.” Even with a fine wager, nothing: not even a bleeding sign of hope. It was dark and lonely and no customer or sad sap was coming. Loosening her bow tie, Skimmie pulled a bottle off the wall and chugged it down. “Well, all"hic"drinks are"hic"on"hic"me.” Wiping her mouth, she pulled another bottle.

                It was Happy Hour. What was she supposed to do? Uncorking the fourth bottle, the door kicked opened and a kid slid into the seat next to her. Messy hair, goggle things, and a jacket: Skimmie wasn’t that drunk to share her juice with this kid.

                “Hic"I don’t sale"hic"to minors. Hic"Go back to ma and"hic"pa.”

                “Just pour me a glass of milk,” he said calmly, pulling off his gloves with his teeth. Skimmie squinted. Dang, he looks kind of handsome…for a kid. Cheeks flamed, she stumbled out of her seat and to the storage room.

                “Milk’s on me. Paying during Happy Hour sucks,” she said, uncorking another bottle with her teeth. Taking a sip, she slammed the bottle of milk and a rusty metal bowl onto the counter behind the boy. He spun around in his seat and glanced at it. “Shot glasses are for drinks. Metal bowls are for milk sissies.”

                The kid shrugged, drinking straight from the dusty warm bottle. Maybe it was her vision, but the boy looked familiar. Maybe he was one of those kids that bothered her with school treat sales. Nah, he’s too dang serious to sale cookies. Jacket and goggles…this kid got some history on him.

                The door opened again, this time…with two cloaked men. Without batting an eyelash, Skimmie recited, “Welcome to Unlucky 13. It’s Happy Hour! All drinks you order are half off for just this hour only.”

                “Is Leah Scruffs here?” asked the taller of the two. His breath reeked of cigars. Typical mafia, Skimmie thought. “Excuse me, is Leah Scruffs here?”

                “Heard ya the first time,” she complained, spitting on the floor. “Nah, she ain’t here. She at home watching…anime, yeah that’s the word, anime.”

                “Are you Skimmie Scruffs?” asked the other man, short and chunky. “Your sissy owes us five grand.”

                Explains the free cash for the bar bills, she thought slipping her way over the counter to the wall of bottles. Darting his eyes at her, the kid slid out of his seat"milk and bowl in hand"and onto the floor, pulling his goggles over his eyes.

                “Heck, who said I’ll pay ya? Huh? Who said?”

                “We’re warning you…” The men pulled out guns from their cloaks. “Play chicken or give us the loot?”

                “NO!” Brushing back her bangs, she got her thumb ready to press the little red button under the drink the counter. Do it! I dare ya…

                The men fired. Lightning quick; a bullet-proof panel shot from the floor, shielding Skimmie.

                “What the"”

                Smirking, Skimmie pressed the button again. The wall of bottles flipped around like a spun coin. All the bottles slanted downwards, aimed at the men like guns. Laughing like a maniac, she pulled out three bullets from her pocket.

                “Ooh, let’s see now…should I use the Magnum, the Colt, or the Auto Mag?” She looked at the bullets like they were playing cards in a poker match. Tossing them in the air, she mumbled, “It doesn’t matter. You’re both getting holeyeither way.” Giggling, she pressed the button once more. All the bottles tilted back up right, and the wall flipped again, exposing the real drink bottles.

                The men blinked. WHACK! CRASH! Tall dude was struck down with the rusty bowl. Chubby got nailed by a milk bottle. They were both out cold"chubby’s hair was dripping of milk and glass shards. Wiping his hands together, the kid looked at Skimmie, pulling his goggles up to his forehead"all cool like.

                “Were those ‘bottles’ guns?” Skimmie rolled her head back, trying to hide her growing grin.

                “You should do this more often. I always have someone killing the mood,” Skimmie said. “But yeah, they’re guns.” Skimmie looked at the boy’s eyes. Gray mixed with blue…rare and deadly combination. She liked the kid already.

                “If you need more milk, you know where to ask. Ha, it’s good for both mind and soul.”

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