Vintage Poison

I like whiskey.

About 8 years ago I was out hanging with some buddies. It was more like hardcore binge drinking but, whatever. I was out, fresh after a tough break-up with a bitch girlfriend and we were doing some drinking. As with most times back then the boozing drifted into the wee hours of the night, consciousness was difficult, rational thinking was extinct and simple, animalistic actions were the rule. What I surmise as near 4 A.M. I got into a fight with my buddy (he happens to be about 6'4" 250 lb. monster) and decided my friends were all assholes and I was going home. So, I went home.

At this time I was living with mom and dad still. Somehow I made it home alive and not in cuffs. When I crept into the house, I walked to the kitchen to have myself a drink. Not sure if it was to be water or booze but again, whatever. Upon stumbling into the kitchen I noticed some really old looking bottles on the counter. I picked one up, peered at it through blood shot eyes and my jaw flopped open. The label read "Pre-war whiskey, not to be sold." The PA LCB sticker on the lid said something about prohibition and not for sale. My god, I thought, forbidden whiskey that is like 85 years old.

Odd stuff always made it's way up from my parents basement. The house was old and the guy who lived there before us was rich and had a bunch of bullshit down there. So I had my hands on some vintage, old american whiskey. Upon closer inspection I noticed there were only a few ounces in the bottle. My only chance to enjoy some vintage good stuff? Mine, mine, mine. I drank them. Big mistake. Greed tempted me to selfishly enjoy the last of the old stuff. I never thought to smell the liquid. I should have. My desire to keep all of the booty to myself overwhelmed my good sense. I wish it didn't. The booze was gone and, sadly, it wasn't booze. Poison. The first thought that screamed through my blurry mind was "my god I've killed myself." I drank something that I could not identify. It was some sort of evil chemical used for removing things or something. Survival instincts. I went and guzzled milk, I know that helps. The taste was noxious and consuming. The smell unmistakable. What to do now? Complete exhaustion and retarded drunkenness were boiling over, I needed to sleep. As with most thing back then I said, fuck it. If I die it will be in my sleep but I got to get to sleep. The birds where chirping. Up the steps, into bed, poisonous fumes wafting from my throat, the smell unmistakable, I hoped I wouldn't die.

Needless to say, I lived. The night forever tattooed into my memory, my senses won't let me forget. Since then I've told this story many, many times. During the first 50 or so times I could still taste and smell the chemical, the smell was unmistakable. I keep the bottle as both a cool antique and a piece of history, my history. The history of the night I drank vintage poison.