CHAPTER ONE (8)

Without any hint of caution, Todd picked up the precious mixture and brought it to his nose like a fine wine.

“Mmm, hm.” He said pensively.

“Hint of the tropics; must be…” he hesitated, looking for the correct words, “yes, as I thought. Pineapple, and cherry, perhaps muddled together… Ah yes,” he breathed deeply, “The aroma is a bit oakey. Seems to have been aged for, say, no less than three full hours.” Todd tilted the entire stainless steel pot until his head was almost entirely inside. “And the defining factor! Yes – a two-thousand and nine purple haze from the Hermosillo region of central Mexico! Hence, the deep brown and almost green color!” This was all matter-of-factly, of course.

Toddy drank the mixture, finally, for he could tell that his being a conessiouer was beginning to get on Squirley’s nerves.

“The after taste, you ask, my good man Squirley? Complex, with a robust finish.”

“How do ya feel, though?”

“Complex and robust.”

“Give me some.”

And so schwampagne had been created. And so it was the main staple of Todd and Squirley’s “nights on the town,” which usually ended in Toddy going to jail. But he would always make it to work the next day, always sneaking glass jars full of schwampagne. It was a miracle that Toddy could function at work. Schwampage also constituted Toddy’s affliction for what he called “mischief”. Bar fights, petty theft, prostitution, and loitering were his main offenses of mischief. And Ryan would follow along on Toddy’s escapades, generally deceiving people into thinking that Toddy was really not out to get anyone. And Toddy really wasn’t out to get anyone. He was just a good guy who couldn’t think practically, even when he was sober. Hence, the creation of Schwampagne.

Squirley was not the opposite of Toddy by most means, but he resented the fact that Todd would let himself get into the business of a bank account. A self-proclaimed “paranoid,” Squirley would often bring up the fact that Toddy let them get his numbers. The dreaded numbers. Weren’t we all just dreaded numbers. Not me, Ryan thought. They won’t get mine. And why? Because in all this business helter helter-skelter, you never know when they are going to make a mistake and let out the only thing that defines a person; the only thing that makes one a person, that makes a human being. They might look like they have all their things in order, but really, they didn’t. Especially the banks, especially the government. It was bad enough having a social security number that anyone could just use to become someone else. Though Squirley hated this system, no, that he hated the system, he felt that if he had to live in it, he wanted his numbers kept safe – kept as far away from any muddling from the government. And things didn’t always go as planned, and you never knew when an entire identity theft would ruin your life.

So he was paranoid. The system had flaws. By some chance of events, schawmpagne had been created out of thin, chaotic air. If that thin air could so easily create Schwapagne, could it not also take his numbers? No one was safe from it. No one.