Dose

This story is the second in a series of shorts that I will write based on a prompt from Facebook friends.  Call it practice for 2011, when I take the WriYe challenge:  350,000 word count for the year.  That means 1000 words a day.  The word for this story is "Dose".


"Come here," Frank snapped. His name was actually Frances, but godknows he wouldn't tell a single one of his co-workers something like that. Not here.

Mischa turned at his voice, her eyebrows raised. Her eyes were shaped like upturned almonds, and her hair was long and straight. She wore it in a low ponytail and it swung opposite her hips when she walked. "Excuse me?" She sniffed slightly, and drew a finger under her right eye.

"You heard me. Come here. To the kitchen." He strode away without giving her a second glance.

She exhaled sharply through her nostrils, scratched her elegant throat once, and followed him. Her figure was accentuated sharply by the rise of her bootheels. A dancer from very young, Mischa was trained in Russia and performed in Paris during the years most teenagers were sucking face and getting driver's licenses. She dressed mostly in slinky tunics, in solid colors expertly picked for her complexion and the time of year. She was utterly stunning, and every man in the place twitched a little when she passed. Frank, however, was the only one who had her full attention. He was also, somewhat coincidentally, the only gay one in the place.

Mischa burst through the swinging doors of the kitchen to find Frank leaning, impatient, against the bone-colored surface of the prep area. He held a prescription pill bottle in one hand and the white top in the other.

"What? What do you want, Frank? Today's hard enough as it is, I don't need any more—"

"Shut up. You're being an ungrateful bitch, considering I brought you in here to give you a present."

"A present? What are you talking about?"

"You need to calm down. I know what you need." He showed her the inside of the bottle: Inside was a small amount of blue powder.

"Oh God, what is that?"

"Think of it as your medicine. Uncle Benzy's medicine."

It all clicked into place for Mischa then. Frank was prescribed valium for his panic attacks. He preferred to snort lines of it, when such an attack struck and thusly, carried them crushed and ready. Frank stuck his index finger into the bottle, still holding the top, and pulled it out covered in the light blue stuff.

"Jesus Christ, Frank, thank you but—"

"Perfect." He stuck the finger into her mouth and pressed down on her tongue. She sputtered and tried to pull away but Frank clucked and cooed at her. "Oh, no, baby, no, don't spit out your medicine."

Mischa looked at him in horror, briefly. Then, she swallowed. She looked him in the eyes with a resigned glare, expecting him to pull his finger out. He merely giggled. She huffed out her nose and licked his finger lasciviously. He giggled more.

"Silly slut, that doesn't turn me on, you're a girl!"

Mischa stopped and leveled him with a cool gaze. She clamped her front teeth around the meat of his finger and ground down. Frank squealed at a pitch rarely approached by anything less than a newborn baby pig.

"You bitch! Let fucking go of my fucking finger you fucking bitch!"

She unclenched and let him go, spitting a little and wiping her mouth.

"What the fuck you fucking bitch, you fucking bitch, how dare you?"

"How dare I? You stuck your finger in my mouth, covered with drugs!"

"You fucking needed it, you've been crying about this jackass for over 48 hours now! Fuck, my fucking finger, you fucking cunt!" At this slip, he darted a glance at her, suddenly less concerned about the minor soreness of his finger.

"Wow, Frank."

"Hey, don't get mad at me for that, you fucking bit me!"

"You know how I feel about that word."

"Oh come the fuck on, you're being a bitch! I was trying to help you out."

"You shoved your finger in my mouth. And then, when I defend myself, you call me a cunt?"

"Look, just fucking forget it, okay? Last time I ever help you."

"And, of all people, the guy that got a manager fired for letting slip a 'faggot' during pre-shift?"

"Seriously? This is ancient history."

"Sean was gay, too. You're a misogynist fuckhead who takes uses his automatic 'outsider' status as a gay man to do whatever the fuck you want, however the fuck you want to."

"Look, bitch, this conversation is over. You and I are done—"

"Frank, I think I can probably do without another hateful asshole masquerading that he likes and appreciates me just so I'll get your ugly ass into clubs."

"Mischa, seriously—"

"By the way, black thugs usually aren't into chinless, obnoxious white boys with bad breath."

"Bitch, I am gonna get your ass fired, you wait and see."

"Oh, fuck right off, Frank. You're a selfish troublemaker, not some champion for your people."

Mischa turned to leave but stopped. She spun on her heel and looked directly at the pill bottle still in Frank's hand. Without preamble, she slapped it from his hand onto the floor. A bluish puff of dust erupted from the bottle and sprinkled back onto the floor. Frank screamed in horror.

"I'm going to fucking kill you! That was my stash for the entire month!" He screamed again, enraged. He advanced on Mischa, and she pulled herself up to her full 5'4" frame.

"Try something, Frank. I'm shorter but you're a silly skinny fuck. I'll toss you to the ground and smash some of those veneers out while I'm at it."

Frank paused. Something wilted a bit behind his indignant sneer. He slumped back minutely, and Mischa relaxed a bit.

"Bitch. I'm filing a complaint against you with corporate, you better believe it."

Mischa smiled. "Have fun."

Frank pushed past her, brushing her shoulder slightly. "Fuckin' bitch."

The swinging doors squeaked and slammed as he made his exit. Mischa took a deep breath. She could still feel the un-taste of the crushed pills on her tongue. It was time for a drink. Somewhere far away from here.