Short Story: Cup of Wine

In vino veritas, isn’t that what they say? From wine comes truth. From the drunk comes enlightenment.

Bullshit, in my view. Absolute bullshit. What I said last night wasn’t truth, wasn’t enlightenment. Nothing more than sludge emerged from the drunk slug I’d been.

Not as bad as that idiot, Jon, though. Jon the Judas, the man who opened his mouth and spat venom at his latest conquest, and who got his throat slit for it. Good riddance, I say. A man like that doesn’t deserve the love of a woman, let alone a beauty like that.

Siren, she called herself, Mistress of the Seas and the Souls of Men. She’s got mine, that’s for sure. The words I spoke to her were of marriage and children, all the shit that women want to hear, and she heard none of it. Got me drunk beyond caring, and I told her other things, the things a man should never say to a woman, and she got me.

And here I am, impaled on a statue to the God of Wine – what was his name? Oh, yeah, Dionysus. Dickhead. He should have warned the world … or maybe if I took the words to mean: beware the truths that come from the indulgence of wine and women?

Yes, that might have worked. Bit late to be thinking on that now that I’m a layer of red scum on a dead statue.

Photo by Plato Terentev on Pexels.com

Another of the scheduled posts while I recover. You’ll see me again, that’s for sure. I shall return, said the corn-cob totin’ general, and so do I.

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