Untitled Jack Daniels "Agent Whiskey" Fic
Warnings: Cursing, drug usage, brief discussions of death/inferred overdose, anti-drug sentiment, anti-subance user sentiment, I think that’s all for this chapter but please let me know!
Author's Note: So this deals with many sensitive topics so this is a SECOND time I encourage you to take note of the warnings and please heed them for your own well-being. I honestly lost motivation to continue this story a while ago but it has remained on my mind for so long. I've written a good chunk already and planned everything out so maybe ;) some ;) motivation ;) would ;) help ;) me ;) get ;) to ;) it ;)
IF YOU WANT TO!! THANK YOU!!
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Louisville, KY
January, 2015
Agent Whiskey was sure of two things in life. The first, illicit drugs took away his life's purest sources of happiness. Possibly infantile in nature, he couldn’t help but conjure a mental allusion of substances as a Venus flytrap. One of those blood hungry little suckers he got to see in his 9th grade field trip to the only natural life museum within a driving distance of Barralton Kentucky. From a distance, it was incredibly easy to feel a type of biological superiority to the fly that was stupid enough to dance its way into the obvious trap. But, an itch was admittedly present. An itch to stick his finger into the terrarium to see if he could trigger the natural reflex of the plant, knowing that the two inch tall plant’s ability to seriously injure a 15 year old human was slim to none.
But he never had the chance, getting tugged away by a chaperone to observe some endangered beetle exhibit that was obviously not interesting enough for him to truly absorb. But that itch remained, a morbid curiosity. He never was able to return to that museum, and he was sure even if he did, his finger would probably hurt the plant more than it could ever hurt him. But he hated that silly plant, and it’s strange way of providing some bizarre solution to the newfound desire that was never present before he witnessed the force of nature in person. He could’ve lived his entire life, happily, without the wandering thoughts that would inject themselves into his mid-history class daydreams.
But what would it be like?
Would it hurt? It couldn’t hurt, I’m so much bigger than a fly.
If it did hurt, would it hurt like a minuscule pin prick or would it be an experience he’d never had before?
Would he ever have the chance to experience it again? While insignificant, would he have no other way to address that ant-sized irritant that made his mind crave exposure in the first place?
He believed it must start with an itch that would not have been present if some obscure “solution” had been presentedn. With illicit drugs, he imagined the itch must feel like a fire under one’s skin. Bubbling, burning, sparking under thin layers of epidermis, threatening to consume the entirety of one’s being. And that itch, would never have been conceived if there wasn’t that fucking Venus Flytrap.
The introduction of a temptation. The offer of danger one may believe was a controlled risk, that couldn’t hurt to try just once. They had those D.A.R.E. classes for a reason, right? Ignoring that they were mocked by the entire student body. D.A.R.E. probably was the reason that many of his class learned about the plethora of choices they had at their disposal. You’d think the school board would lose hope after the ‘success’ of years of abstinence-only sex ed.But what kept the man’s gut in a perpetual state of turmoil was not sympathy for the flies. Far from it, flies carry disease, a nuisance that he wouldn’t think twice about bludgeoning with a rolled newspaper. What makes bile rise in Jack Daniel’s throat are the innocent, unintended casualties of those who had no business being near the death trap in the first place. Because in the end, whether it’s a lowlife fly with numbered days or a ladybug who mistook the open jaws as a possible rest stop, it doesn't matter to the fly trap. It will get to eat, keep surviving, thriving. And something…someone, who was a beacon of joy to the world, often only recognized the danger before it was far too late. Too late to save themselves, let alone have someone else try.
And the cycle continues. Thus is nature. So, Jack Daniels was fortified in his beliefs. That something blood-sucking and carnivorous stole her from him. But he also knew that, unlike the hunger of a Venus flytrap, what took his joy away was far from nature. Far from an uncontrollable and unyielding fate that would’ve happened even in the best conditions.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. It wouldn’t have happened, not to her.
Agent Whiskey was sure of two things in life. The first, illicit drugs took away his life's purest sources of happiness. The second? That he would never find anything close to peace until there was a semblance of vengeance. Punishment to the world and all of those who spread their evil addiction, their illness, to infect others. Maybe he could save some poor son of a bitch like him from feeling an unfillable cavern in their chest cavity. Maybe he could distract himself with such a noble cause to better humanity.
Maybe, if anything, she would be proud that I fought for her. ‘Till my last breath.
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Barralton, KY
November, 1990
Which asshole with the inhumanly long wingspan made it their personal goal to keep anyone less than 6’4” from using sugar in their drink?
Having exhausted the concept of macgyvering some type of arm extender with a yardstick and scissors, the freshman girl found herself dragging a far from steady roller chair towards the faculty lounge’s cabinet. Call it late stage desperation brought on by a long midweek school day. She sent an affirming glance to her awaiting mug of tea, visibly emitting less steam as the minutes passed.
She assumed they were fair game. It wasn’t like the teachers didn’t have a storage place for cups and drinks in the study lounge that was harder for students to access.
Attempting to wedge the roller legs strategically against the wall, she silently hoped that the cabinet shelves could hold her weight if she needed to hold herself upright. Fingers crossed that the soles of her second-hand Mary Janes had some semblance of slip resistant traction left. She had just barely pushed her weight onto the leg that was planted in the middle of the seat when the grating sound of a standard issue school door handle pulled her attention.
Standing in the entrance to the otherwise empty room was another student. She was far too aware of the unconventional position he found her in to recollect if she’d ever seen him before. The frozen eye contact felt like it spanned minutes before an undoubtedly amused grin pulled at the corner of the boy’s mouth.
“Not too sure that’s the best way of goin’ about…whatever you’re doin’.”
His voice didn’t hide his teasing curiosity that made her face burn. Huffing, she tossed a braid that looked much more like a braid earlier that morning, over her shoulder. She directed her focus upwards towards her sweet target and puffed air at a loose hair caught in her eyelashes.
“Didn’t have many other options. Apparently, I’ve got to get shin extensions to enjoy the good things in life.” She didn’t miss his small grimace at the visceral idea of shin extensions that was quickly covered by an understanding nod.
Stepping into fluorescent lit space, he allowed the door to shut behind him with a heavy thud and set the papers he’d been carrying on the nearest table. His gate was casual, lazy almost, as he wandered over to the girl, still poised to continue her risky ascent. His ranch boots were so worn she was surprised that each of his steps weren’t followed by a dusty print. Sliding next to her between the open cabinet doors, he craned his neck to zero in on her intended goal. In their close proximity she could examine his side profile as he focused up.
Handsome, definitely. In a way that should be intimidating, but he exuded an air of aloofness that put her at ease. Like his messy brown hair was because…he let it. Not because he stood in the mirror to secure each strand in place to seem effortless. His sharp jaw was accompanied by a sprinkling of freckles that trailed under the collar of his plaid button-up. A small shade of incoming facial hair dusted across his upper lip, fighting his razor until he eventually committed to growing it out one day.
“Sugar?” He offered a simple question about what she was after, but with a voice just settling into an adult baritone causing her to all but forget about what put them in this situation.
“Is that…are you callin’ me that or are you offering to grab the bag for me?” It was surprisingly easy to offer a playful tease in his direction, and it became infinitely more so when the result was a grin that brought endearing creases next to his eyes. They were soft and deep brown, she noted. Like a doe.
“Can’t it be both?” He offered as he extended his left arm upwards. He only needed to push himself slightly onto his toes to reach and soon she was pouring it straight from the bag into her luke-warm tea.
He stood close by, examining her process. It almost looked like he wanted a report on the results. She silently took a taste from the mug, avoiding a chip on the rim which probably was enough to warrant a replacement. Locking eyes with him mid-sip sent a notable shiver down her arms. She’d lie to herself and blame it on the school’s over air-conditioning in mid-November. Offering a small shrug and teasing smile, she put her cup down.
“Drinkable. Thank you…” She didn’t know what the protocol was in this situation, does she hold out a hand to shake? There was no time to overanalyze as her companion crossed his arms across his chest and casually learned his hip against the counter. A hip that was attached to incredibly long denim clad legs she might add.
“Jack Daniels. And s’all good, couldn’t have you cracking your skull open over a cup of tea.”
She offered her name and received a hint of a grin. Almost as if it hit him just at that moment, his brows furrowed slightly as he took in the otherwise desolate lounge. “Probably easier to make some at home. They have the good stuff here or…?”
“Just using it to grip onto my sanity as I wait for my ride. What about you? You’re not spray paintin’ something or blocking the toilets right? I can’t be an accomplice.” He shook his head with a chuckle as he glanced at his previously abandoned documents.
“You’re in luck, just bringin’ in my parking forms now that I’m all official. Didn’t even wait a full week after turnin’ 16.” He stuffed his hands into his jean pockets with a shoulder raise. “Who’s comin’ to get ya? It’s already half-past three.”
“Brother. Would be less of a wait if he actually went to classes so we could leave straight from here.” He observed the way she rolled her eyes, sensing a complete lack of malice towards the inconvenience. “Luckily, Mr. Butler is nice enough to let me hang out here because he likes to clean and lock up last.”
“Where do you live? I just gotta drop these in the mailbox. I’ve got room in my truck.” Jack pushed himself to stand upright as he took a few strides to gather his neatly stapled files.
“Jack, I’m all the way out in Belmont. I’m sure that’s out of your way.”
Despite offering her own dispute, she found herself following his steps that led towards the room’s exit.
“Nah, you’re on the way for me. Besides, I'm stubborn as all hell. you might just wanna save your breath.” He noted the sole backpack in the room draped over one of the roller chairs. Sliding it over one shoulder and opening the door, he sent her back a reassuring look. Possibly one of encouragement.
She fought the urge to badger him over carrying her bag, but decided to drop it after seeing his earnest expression. She gave pause once more as she stepped towards the threshold where he was acting as a doorstop so she could walk through.
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