Just before midnight, I find myself swaying in the arms of a young man dressed as what he calls a “gladiator.” He’s almost as tall as me, with rather formidable arms and a six-pack to die for. I certainly wouldn’t mind taking him to the winter barrows to keep me warm for the next century or two.
The music stops, and we head towards the stairs to the garden for “some air” as he calls it. A human euphemism, I conclude from the increase in his heartbeat.
That’s when it happens. I remember thinking “some imbecile spilled their drink and didn’t clean up”, remember my foot slipping, the world going upside down, and then, nothing.
I wake, coughing and spitting, my “gladiator” and dozens of others looking down on me. An awful taste fills my mouth. Blood? Bile? No, it’s worse. Unnaturally so.
“It’s the brandy,” a woman, holding a bottle, says to no one in particular. “Not used to it I guess.”
Brandy? A human drink?
They never told us what would happen if we had human food or drink. We know what happens the other way round, of course, but then, our stuff is seriously good. They want it. Nobody’s ever been even vaguely tempted by what they eat and drink, and that so-called “brandy” certainly proves it.
I suppose I’ll find out if the deal is the same both ways.
No comments:
Post a Comment