Quick Drink Fiction: The Big, Bad Wolf

What revs him up every time he awakes – what really petrifies his morning wood – is picturing all the stupid fucking fucks he’d fuck that day and their soon to be crying faces.

If a fool is born every minute, this asshole is the doctor charged with guiding them from the safety and comfort of their mothers to his unfortunate reality, where nobody cares about them and he will take everything they have. Then he’ll laugh and eat a big fucking steak for dinner and screw his blonde trophy wife because he can.

When he smacks his lips with his silver tongue, he is never short changed by the high-priced bullshit that flows out of his mouth. The sizable transaction that takes place every day by the mere act of moving his lips equals the gross domestic product of a small island nation. But who gives a shit about those kind of people who can’t even make an annual salary big enough to afford a fucking Tom Ford suit?

What he loves most is the taking. It’s not a physical act, but one that rises from your self-doubt, ferried along by your uncertainty and delivered by his devious ability to simply not give two shits about you. When he first starts talking, they’ll have everything. Then, nothing. A promise of bonds or derivatives or something else a pea-brained fuck wouldn’t understand except that final guarantee of Big Money. The first aid kit to all of life’s bumps and scratches.

Except for when he’s being investigated by the Securities and Exchange Commission for 26 counts of fraud.

In a “slam dunk” case.

And his friends have agreed to speak against him.

But he’ll fuck them all like he fucked all the other sorry losers who have come in front of his path. His tongue would spin them around in lyrical circles like he was a caller at a god damned square dance.

Except his wife was gone when he got home. A note written and pasted to the hallway mirror after she was clued into what happened by Steve at the office. Bitch.

Fuck ’em all. He’s got this. He doesn’t need anyone.

He walked into his kitchen, hardwood floors clicking under the soles of his $1,400 Louis Vuitton shoes. The marble counter tops cool to his touch in the darkness.

He was home. Alone. With his fortune.

miller fortune-beer-beertography

+Bryan Roth
“Don’t drink to get drunk. Drink to enjoy life.” — Jack Kerouac


8 thoughts on “Quick Drink Fiction: The Big, Bad Wolf

  1. Channeling deftly, my friend.

    1. Finally got to make a reference to an erection on my beer blog! MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.

      1. Morning wood! Haha! Nice! Possible write up about a beer and porn pairing!

      2. Thanks, Marcus! You may get a good chuckle out of this post from Valentine’s Day

  2. Very nice. Look who’s gone all “Oliver Gray” on us. And isn’t it nice to finally write something where you get to use all those cuss words that have been just laying around?

    1. Thanks! I don’t get to do much creative writing in this format, so when the mood strikes, I want to see where it might take me. That is to say, sweary, this time.

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