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Cricket knows he shouldn’t have tried a shortcut. The young bootlegger was in a hurry to deliver the goods to The Blind Tiger and return to his stills, and now he’s paying for it as two men of considerably more bulk than his slight frame twist his arms behind his back and march him down a musty flight of stairs. Cricket hasn’t the faintest idea where the massive goons are taking him; how could he, with a sack over his head and a piece of cloth stuffed so far into his mouth that it takes all of his effort not to gag? He squirms and grunts in protest as fingers dig through the worn fabric of his shirt and in response a heavy hand cuffs the back of his head, sending waves of dizzying pain crashing through his brain. He lurches forward with a choked off yelp and would have tumbled down the stairs had his captors not been grasping his upper arms with bruising force. Specks of light explode behind his eyelids and his legs buckle as he nearly passes out, but the two burly men drag him relentlessly downward until they finally reach level ground. Released with a shove, Cricket sprawls forward on his hands and knees onto a hard stone floor. “Mmmmmmffff!” he grunts around the gag in his mouth.
“What’s this?” The voice is deeply masculine and the smell of cigar smoke burns into Cricket’s nostrils. Rough hands pull him to his feet, only to force him down into an unyielding chair, and yank the sack from his head. The room is only dimly lit but he squints anyway as smoke stings his pale blue eyes. He blinks several times before he can make out a shadowy figure behind the imposing desk before which he had been so forcefully seated, and his watering eyes widen in panic. As his vision clears he realizes that he faces a tall, heavyset man dressed in an expensive-looking suit. Cricket’s never seen a mob boss in person but he’s heard enough horror stories from the big cities to be able to recognize one. A heavily muscled gangster and a wiry man with more scar tissue than skin on his face stand impassively behind the boss, sawed-off shotguns in their hands. Cricket swallows hard; his insides take a sudden dive toward his feet.
“We found this little cripple sneaking around our joint, boss,” one of the men announces from behind him, trapping him in the chair with a heavy hand on each shoulder. “You know how these country boys are, always up to no good. This one had the moxie to try to hawk his own hooch on our turf. He had a whole crate of the stuff.” A scraping sound and clinking glass as one of the men nudged the box of mason jars filled with amber liquid into view with his boot. Cricket shakes his head furiously, making muffled little sounds through the gag and breathing frantically through flared nostrils.
“Let’s see what the boy has to say for himself.” The seated man rests his cigar in an ashtray and leans forward. He plucks the sodden cloth from Cricket’s mouth and tosses it away in disgust. Cricket gasps and takes a loud, shuddering breath. “I swear I wasn’t...” his voice chokes off and he tries again. “I wasn’t trying to….I was just lost. I swear, I didn’t know I was in your territory.” He swallows audibly and tries to catch his breath. “It won’t happen again – I promise. You can keep my whiskey. Please, just let me go and…and I promise you’ll never see me again.” His cheeks flush with shame at how small and helpless he feels, at having to debase himself like this in the presence of the mobsters.
“You’re right about that,” comes the gravelly voice of the thug from behind him. Cricket can feel the goon’s hot, moist breath on his skin and he shrinks away. “It won’t happen again because you’ll be dead.” An all-too familiar click, and cold metal replaces the hot breath in his ear. Cricket’s heart seems to stop. He whimpers involuntarily and his face reddens further.
“Put the piece away, Bruno,” the boss drawls, waving his hand dismissively so that jeweled rings on his fingers glint in the wan light. “This little cripple ain’t worth wasting a slug.” He pauses, pursing his lips in thought. “Let’s go easy on him this time and send him back to the rest of his hillbilly boys – with a lesson for anyone else who might be thinking about muscling in on our racket.” The gangster called Bruno lowers his pistol from Cricket’s head and puts it back in his belt with a snort of disappointment. Cricket barely dares to breathe.
“What did you want us to do with him then, boss?” asks the second, taller goon, eyeing Cricket with distaste from narrowed eyes. Cricket clenches his jaw and glares back in an attempt to hide the fear knotting his stomach. “And what about the alky? We can’t be selling second-rate hooch.” This insult to his craft makes the young bootlegger bristle even more than being called a cripple, and a flash of anger nearly overrides his terror. He works hard at the stills and is proud of his liquor, but he bites back his retort lest the gangsters decide he is worth wasting a bullet on after all.
A terrifying grin spreads slowly across the mob boss’s heavy jowls, revealing gold-plated eye teeth. “I have a solution that will take care of both…problems. Let’s give the little country boy his liquor back and then send him home if he survives.”
“….What?” Cricket jerks up straight in the chair and stares at the man. Surely he hasn’t heard him correctly; but no one bothers to reply to the flabbergasted bootlegger.
“Whatever you say, boss”, the tall goon smirks, reaching for the crate of whiskey. Bruno’s heavy hands remain on Cricket’s shoulders and the boss looks on expectantly as the other man unscrews a jar and sniffs at the liquid within. “Whew! That’s strong stuff.” He samples it and raises his eyebrows appreciatively. “Sure you don’t want to fence it, boss? This hillbilly knows his hooch.”
“Do as I say, Carl. We don’t know what went into it and we can’t be ruining our reputation with coffin varnish. Could be full of lead.”
The gangster shrugs and turns back to Cricket to thrust the opened jar into the startled young man’s hands. “You heard the boss. Drink up.”
Cricket’s eyes widen with sudden horrible understanding and he stares woefully at the whiskey, trying not to think about his hastily eaten dinner. Just the smell of the potent booze, combined with the reek of cigars and unwashed skin, is enough to make his mouth fill with sour saliva. Keenly aware of the five sets of eyes staring at him, he takes a sip and winces as the alcohol burns down his throat.
“Come on, you’ll have to do better than that,” the boss growls. Realizing he has no choice if he wants to leave this place in one piece, Cricket swallows hard, squeezes his eyes shut, and gulps from the jar while the men jeer. “All of it, boy!” He tilts his head back, adam’s-apple bobbing up and down in his slender neck, trying to down the liquid without tasting it. The empty jar drops from his hands and shatters on the stone floor.
“Attaboy!” The mobsters hoot and Cricket finds another jar in his unsteady hands. A burp fills his mouth with the unpleasant taste of booze and half-digested dinner. You can do it. Focus. It’s your own moonshine for heaven’s sake… He tries to ignore the increasing discomfort in his midsection and starts sipping at the acrid liquid.
He makes it only halfway through the second jar before doubling over in a fit of coughing, whiskey spraying from his mouth and dribbling down his chin. His shoulders shake convulsively as he chokes and sputters and gasps for air.
“Can’t even hold his own liquor,” comes a snicker from behind him. “I think he needs help.” Before Cricket can protest, the mason jar is snatched from his hands while fingers sink into his short sandy brown hair and violently yank his head back. He yelps in pain and someone shoves the jar into his open mouth, the rim connecting painfully with his teeth. “Now finish it!” Gasping, Cricket obeys, and the remainder of the moonshine burns its way down his throat and into his tormented stomach in a series of noisy gulps.
“That’s two down,” says Carl, tossing the empty jar aside. “Good little gimp.”
Cricket’s eyes tear up as the mobster reaches for a third jar from the crate. The movements seem blurred, distorted. Hammers pound his skull relentlessly and the whole room swims in a sickening swirl of light and shadows and smoke, matching his churning gut. He lets out a moan of abject misery, followed by a loud belch that brings up sour acid. Clamping his jaws shut he tries desperately to swallow the sudden flood of saliva. No…I can do this. I will not get sick…not here… With a shaky hand he prods his sloshy, distended belly, distantly noticing through the fog clouding his brain that the fabric of his worn, rust-colored sweater vest feels tight, straining at the buttons. He can’t remember ever having felt so wasted. Not the time he accidentally got his hands on some moonshine as a little kid…nor the time he built his first still and proudly tried the results…and tried them and tried them until he was violently sick. He starts to hiccup and it hurts like hell.
“Little country boy likes his booze. I think he’s ready for more,” the boss leers, clearly enjoying Cricket’s discomfort. The young man’s stomach gurgles loudly in protest and he cringes. “Can we….can we jus’ wait…a bit…?” he manages to slur out between hiccups.
“Yep, definitely ready!” one of the other men agrees with a nasty chuckle, deliberately ignoring Cricket’s plea. A third jar, conveniently opened, is thrust into his hands. His numb fingers can’t seem to grip the smooth glass and Carl barely manages to catch the jar before it spills all over Cricket’s lap. “Zozzled already? But we’re only halfway through.” Laughing, Carl forces the jar against Cricket’s lips and tips it until the liquid floods into his mouth. Cricket’s throat refuses to swallow and he seems to have lost all control as the booze comes right back out his mouth, staining his shirt collar.
“Such a waste.” The boss clucks his tongue. “You’re drinking all of this, boy. No cheating.” The stern tone belies the sheer enjoyment gleaming in the mobster’s predatory gaze.
“N-no….please no….I can’t…” His voice comes out thick, the words slurred. He coughs and spits, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. “My guts…they’re on fire…please….”
The boss frowns. Before the mobster’s displeasure can even enter Cricket’s hazy awareness, a fist connects with his bloated stomach. “Don’t talk back, gimp!” Carl snarls, flexing his fingers. “Next time I’ll use my good hand.” Cricket nearly passes out from the excruciating pain. Tears streaming down his face, he lurches forward and tries to curl up but the gangsters force him upright, panting and whimpering and choking on a mouthful of recently ingested alcohol that came back up with the force of the punch.
“Now drink.” The gangster called Bruno has his pistol out again.
Unable to stop himself from outright sobbing now and too far gone to even feel humiliated by his tears, Cricket swallows the moonshine poured into his mouth, every burning, fiery gulp a struggle of willpower. He tries to soothe his poor stomach with a gentle caress but even that slight amount of pressure hurts like hell and he winces. By now at least one button has popped off his vest thanks to his bloated midsection. He’s far too intoxicated and drenched in nausea to notice, but the mobsters do.
“Not such a scrawny little hillbilly no more!” snickers the scarred man who has so far stood impassively against the far wall, coming close for the first time. He leans forward and stabs a finger right into a patch of pale skin exposed by Cricket’s gaping shirt and vest. The young man’s stomach sloshes in response and the mobster titters. Cricket moans piteously, his head lolling. “Look boss, he’s like one of them hot water bottles now!”
“Now now. Let him drink his hooch in peace, boys. He’s not quite finished.”
Cricket has no recollection of finishing the third jar, but suddenly one of the goons is presenting him with the fourth. Eyes squeezed shut with dizzying nausea, he shrinks back into the chair and jerks his head away while his tortured insides twist and tighten and force another wet, foul-tasting belch out of his mouth. He’s crossed so far beyond the point of no return that his one hope is that being sick might bring some relief to his poor swollen belly.
“Help him out, boys,” the boss commands.
“No…n-no…” Cricket’s protests rise into a shriek as Bruno and Carl lean in. Ungentle hands try to pry his jaws open while he thrashes and kicks with what little strength he has left, his struggles all to no avail. When he refuses to open his mouth willingly, fingers pinch his nostrils shut until he has no choice but to gasp for air. Bruno grabs his jaws and forces them open wide so Carl can pour the whiskey right into Cricket’s mouth.
“Mmmmmmmmmph!” He writhes and splutters and tries to spit it back out but Bruno squeezes Cricket’s jaws back together and wraps massive hands around the young man’s lower face, holding his mouth shut so tightly that his teeth grind painfully against each other. A muffled moan is the only thing that escapes. Cricket can feel the alcohol flooding dangerously close to his gag reflex and he uses whatever drunken focus he has left to hold it in his cheeks as his stomach threatens to heave. He can’t remember ever having felt so sick or miserable in his life as acid creeps up the back of his throat, joining the whiskey burning at the insides of his cheeks.
“Need some help swallowing it down, boy?” A hand seizes Cricket’s throat and squeezes and kneads until he can’t avoid letting the liquid down his esophagus. Oh god it burns! He tries to cough it back up but the goon keeps his jaws held clamped shut and he starts to choke instead. This is it, this is it, his brain screams in panic through the alcoholic haze. Tears stream from his squeezed shut eyes and he kicks desperately until after what seems an eternity the grip on his face loosens.
“That’s it! That’s all four jars that were in the crate, boss!”
“Such a good boy, helping us trash the competition.” Bruno pats and strokes Cricket’s hunched shoulders in a gesture that seems incongruously tender after his previous treatment of the bootlegger. Cricket’s only reaction is a long, low moan. He’s not sure which hurts more – his pounding, throbbing head, or his bulging, gurgling stomach. The buttons have all vanished from his shirt and vest and even his suspenders are straining from the unaccustomed size of his midsection. He wants nothing more than to curl up in his misery but leaning forward puts unbearable pressure on his belly so he does his best to sit up straight, struggling against pain and nausea with each panting breath. Why won’t…the room…stop spinning?
“Boy, I admit I misjudged you,” the boss says with a puff of cigar smoke. “I didn’t think you had it in you to fit all that hooch in you. I’m damn impressed. I guess I’ll let you go after all.”
Before he can answer, an especially loud rumble of protest comes from Cricket’s distended stomach and his eyes widen as a shudder wracks his slight frame. He realizes with shame and dismay that he just can’t keep it down any longer and there’s nothing he can do to stop himself from being sick in front of the mob boss and his men. His soft, pained moan is barely audible compared to the sounds coming from his tortured belly.
“Watch out, little cripple’s gonna upchuck!”
No longer trying to postpone the inevitable, Cricket retches once, twice, claps a hand reflexively over his mouth, and the whiskey is suddenly gushing back out, through his fingers and down his neck and chest while the mobsters hoot with derisive laughter. The liquid burns even more coming up than going down and soaks right through his shirt, hot against his skin. Hiccupping and shuddering uncontrollably, Cricket vomits up wave after wave of alcohol, barely able to gasp for air in-between gut-wrenching heaves. His stomach clenches desperately for what seems an eternity and his very own prized moonshine splatters to the floor over and over again. When at last the spasms in his gut let up, the gangsters have loosened their grip on him and backed away from the spreading puddle, but he is far too weak to even stand up, let alone try to escape.
He’s certain he must have puked up all four jars of whiskey - but his insides continue to writhe and gurgle. How can there possibly be more? Before he can even finish the thought another convulsion seizes his belly. He heaves violently, and soon his hastily eaten dinner from what seems an eternity ago comes back up and spatters all over his lap and joins the puddle spreading over the floor. He stays bent over with his head hanging down for several moments after finishing, clutching his stomach, breathing shakily through his mouth, thick strands of saliva hanging from his lips and chin. When he finally looks up again his nose is running, tears streaking down his pale face. “Oh god,” he moans. And then, no longer supported by the mobsters, he slides to the floor and passes out.
***
When Cricket slowly opens reddened eyes, he is lying in a patch of grass with the headache to end all headaches, the throbbing pain so intense that it nearly blinds him. He rolls over with a groan and gags at the taste in his mouth but his stomach is mercifully empty. Slowly he forces himself to his feet and takes a few limping, staggering steps toward the familiar street in the near distance, averting his gaze from a handful of staring passersby and vowing to never, ever attempt a shortcut again. Not even for all the moonshine in the world.