Pick Your Poison

“Alright, pick your poison,” the bartender said.

“I’ll take a scotch, neat, water on the side,” the woman said, her red dress advertising the date she was waiting for.

“Sorry, we don’t have that. You can – ”

“Okay, whiskey, then. Rye, if you have it.”

“Again, no dice. I can get you the menu, if you like.”

“You don’t have any kind of whiskey?”

“No ma’am, we only have – ”

“Gin and tonic.”

The bartender sighed, clearly not going to get more than a few words in at a time. “Nope.”

“Rum and coke.”


“Do I have to? Fine. Vodka and cranberry.”

“No, can – ”

“Jesus, what do you have?” she asked.

“Arsenic, belladonna, polonium, cyanide, and hemlock.”

“Wait, you mean – ”

“Yes. When I said pick your poison, I meant it literally.”

“So that means – ”

“That your date set you up, yes.” The bartender straightened and picked up a glass to polish. “So, what’ll it be?”

The woman sighed, slumping. “I dunno, hemlock I guess.”


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