A Drinking Game
Halloween at Mickey’s Bar was always eventful. The clientele, considered odd during the rest of the year, really let their hair down on this of all evenings.
At the back of the bar, a tall figure, wrapped in a black cloak – his face hidden in the dark recesses of the cowl – was holding court over four others. Donned in their varying fancy dress costumes, it was impossible to tell the true identity of the patrons so the man dressed as Death merely addressed them by the character they portrayed.
With one gloved hand, he arranged shot glasses before each of his audience. In the other hand, also gloved with a skeleton print, he held a bottle of spirit. When he was not pouring the contents for his customers, he twirled the bottle with the flamboyant ease of a profession.
‘A game, gentleman, if you dare?’ His voice was loud enough to cut through the chatter and yells from the rest of the bar. ‘Four players, four questions. All I ask is that you answer in honesty. If I deem a truth, you drink. If I detect a lie, you die.’
A couple of the players bristled, their shoulders tensing at the words.
‘And by die,’ Death continued, ‘I mean leave the table and allow someone else to play.’
With a few chuckles, the tension left the group.
‘Then let’s begin.’ Death poured a generous measure of the green liquid into each glass. He looked at the person on the left of the row.
‘Mummy,’ he started. ‘Tell me this: what would you die for?’
There was a pause while the player pondered. Then, Irish-lilted voice muffled through the bandages, came the answer: ‘For the love of ol’ Cleopatra hersel’, so I would.’
Death was silent for a moment.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You die.’
Using the bottle, he nudged Mummy’s glass along the table, pulling it closing to himself.
‘Frankenstein,’ Death said. Before the player could argue, he corrected himself, ‘Frankenstein’s Monster. Tell me, would you do anything to keep someone else alive?’
Frankenstein’s Monster scoffed. ‘Easy,’ he answered, ‘though it depends on the person. For my beloved Mina, I would give my very blood.’
Death’s cowl moved as he nodded.
‘Yes, yes. Drink!’
He refilled the Monster’s glass before turning to the next figure. This was perhaps the least impressive costume in the place, merely a white sheet with two cut-out holes. However, the eyes the holes revealed were striking; green and bloodshot, the pupils dilated to different sizes.
‘An easy one for you, Ghost. What would you kill for?’
‘Sm-’ Ghost began. The ‘m’ drawled on for a good three seconds as a protracted mumble. ‘-arts,’ he finally finished.
Death couldn’t stop a giggle escaping the darkness of his hood.
‘I think you mean brains,’ he said, ‘but you win. Drink.’
Ghost covered the glass with his sheet and, a moment later, drew it back. Death refilled the glass quickly.
‘Which bring us to you, Werewolf,’ Death said turning to the last player. ‘Would you do anything to stay alive?’
Werewolf drummed his rubber claws on the tabletop.
‘I am unfamiliar with such a concept,’ he announced. ‘Should I translate the question as Could one do anything to keep living? then myself answer is yes. I could take the day off.’
Death guffawed. ‘Well said,’ he said when he had recovered. ‘Drink, drink. Another round, anyone?’
‘Unfortunately, no,’ Werewolf replied. He reached up to pull off the mask, unveiling a gleaming skull. ‘Work beckons.’
As he turned to leave, his hairy gloves snagged on Ghost’s sheet and pulled it from the walking corpse.
‘Brains,’ the zombie complained.
‘Apologies, dear chap. I’m not used to such hindering hand coverings.’ He pulled off the gloves and flexed his skeletal fingers. ‘Much better,’ he grinned. He always grinned.
‘Fare thee well, Dracula,’ he called. ‘Forgive me, I mean Frankenstein’s Monster. And to you, Mummy,’ he added as he picked up his scythe. ‘I did not catch thy name but please pass on my deepest regards to your banshee brethren.’
Behind the table, the figure dressed as Death shook his head.
‘Doesn’t matter who you are or what you look like,’ he said, ‘that guy always knows the real you.’
And with that, the Grim Reaper left the bar and slipped into the night.
