Heh – sure I have. I sucked down half a bottle last night. And as I was stumbling around the throbbing carnival crowd I heard a dog-like squeal pierce the drumbeats. Well, several squeals really. Followed by many many screams. One or two of them were probably my own. After midnight, when you’re one of the few white faces in the belly of a tribal bacchanal, that’s when you start feeling just like little Tequila; small, unsteady and lost.
Actually this poor creature was not a casualty of last nights festivities. There’s absolutely no truth to the rumor that he was one of those carnival meats served up on a stick. Sadly, Tequila’s been missing for over a month. Now he’s only a faded face on a wanted poster, alive only until the rains come and wash him away. A kind soul (or cruel prankster) has scrawled on the poster that he encountered Tequila’s corpse somewhere in the hood. But he’s willing to return the cadaver if Tequila’s owners are interested, perhaps for a small fee.
Long live Tequila!
