From: bard@cutter.ssd.loral.com (J H Woodyatt)
Subject: My Tequila Story
Reply-To: bard@cutter.ssd.loral.com
Organization: Abiogenesis 4 Less
Date: Tue, 13 Oct 1992 21:26:50 GMT


		_Blackwater,_Breakfast_of_Champions_

When I woke up, I was flying down a gravel road in the back of a
pickup truck driven by a psychotic Tongan on his way to delivering me
to the ship before it was too late.

My ersatz friend, Mid. Schaeffer, was grinning like a fool and waving
the empty bottle of tequila over my head like a fucking plumb line
right over my nose.

Mid. Schaeffer, myself and the Tongan had been swimming earlier in the
day on an island God only knows where, and it was determined that, as
I was speaking in tongues, I should switch from the foul green beer
brewed on Tonga to imported cheap mexican tequila.

There was no pain however, as I was still drunk.  There was no
peristalsis reversal, ergo no vomitus -- tequila is my only friend
among the distilled spirits.  I was in good hands.

There was, however, a *feeling*.  A feeling that I had never felt
before.  It was like I was the Son of Man come to deliver the
righteous from the clutches of Satan.  Fire streamed from my eyes, and
my voice echoed off the buildings on the wharf as I announced my
arrival at the ship to those I had come to smite.

The feeling grew into a possession, then a treasure, and finally a
tactical weapon.  I grew eight inches in height.  My clothes were
rended leaving me nude, but it was no matter because I was clothed in
the golden robes of The Tequila God and my will was physical law.

Mid. Schaeffer was shocked verily and worshipped me on the spot.  The
Tongan on the other hand, was unimpressed -- having seen his share of
immortal ones -- oh, yeah, the Tongan *knew* but he was righteous.  I
spared him.  My wrath was reserved for the officers who knew no shame
and had earned their just reward of wracking pain and tortuous
dismemberment at the hands of my agents on Earth.

As I ascended the gangway, step by step, inch by inch, step by step,
inch by inch, I could see the terror engulfing the watch as the face
of the Officer of the Deck clouded with apprehension.  He knew that
the regs said I couldn't be thrown on report unless I was incapable of
making it aboard under my own power.

Had it been rum, or vodka, or gin, or some other heinous concoction, I
might have been helpless in his grip, and made to do humiliating
things to please him -- but, no!  I was The Tequila God and I knew no
fear.

When I arrived on deck at 0159 and 50 seconds, with Mid. Schaeffer
(sans tequila bottle) supplicating in abject humiliation behind me,
the Officer of the Deck could smell the sweet fragrance of the Word of
the Tequila God, as could all others present on deck, but they would
not repent.

	...So I had to kill them all.

Well, actually I didn't.  The Tequila God may be irrational and
violent, but He can be merciful when he's drunk.  The following
morning when I awoke, we were at sea.

The Pain was present, but it was only a dull throbbing ache that was
only visible in less well lit spaces -- which is where I tended to
stay.  The Tequila God was on the detail that repaired the number one
sewage pump that day.


-- 
J H Woodyatt (a.k.a. Dr. Strychnine)
Space Systems/Loral

All stories about drunkenness, *especially* those involving tequila,
*MUST* involve an epiphany.