The Putrid Corpse Extra Special Reserve

Me Da calls that painting a picture. It’s not true of course. His voice couldn’t really shake the walls or cause the ground ta quake, but those were the sort of shite he used ta throw inta his stories ta make them more powerful. In a story about him, it only feels right ta do the same. Truth is, no one, not me nor me Ma, God rest her soul, ever knew how much of his stories were true and how much was gullyfluff. It doesn’t matter, I suppose. I’ve decided ta believe them all no matter how grand or extravagant. Why? Because the one he told me, the one that matters, the one about the legendary gin, it turned out ta be true and it changed me life.

Me Da, he grew ill. He was old, and he had been the subject and teller of many a story. It was painful ta see such a great man made so humble by a thing like dying.

Because I loved him greatly I stayed with him. I didn’t go a courting, I didn’t seek me mate, rather I stayed home and forgot such notions. The people in the village, they began ta call me an old maid. Some of them respected me for it, or so I think, but others thought I was throwing me life away. I was twenty-seven, not married, no prospects, no wealth, no dowry, no land, only a wee cottage and a dying Da full of stories. But that was fine, anything for me Da.

“There ya’are,” says he as I sat next ta his bed and held his hand. “There’s me gal. Look at cha. Just look at cha. So beautiful. It does me old heart proud ta see such a lovely face in me family. Ya got that from your mother, ya know. She was beautiful, yur ma. Every time I see’s ya, ya remind me of her. If today’s me last day, I just want ta look at yur pretty face one last time.”

“Don’cha talk like that Da,” says I. “It ain’t yur time ta go, not yet. Ya sure ta mend soon ‘nough.”

“No,” says he. “No. I can feel it Ruth. Me soul, it’s on the up and up. It’s standin’ in line right now waitin’ its turn ta get up inta heaven. Oh, and there’s a line, mind. Saint Peter, he’s takin’ his sweet time ta read the book of the sinners, and I’ve got some real baddons before me, so I’ll be around a little while. Even so, I feel it. It’s almost time ta get me right with God.

“But that’s not what I called ta talk t’ya ’bout,” says he. “I have a little time left on this earth, and I aim ta enjoy it whilst I still can. Ta that end, I have a final request before I go. I wouldn’t ask ya if I thought I wasn’t dyin’, but such as it is, I’m askin’ ya. If ya hurry, ya just might have time. Do ya think ya could do sompin’ fur me afore I go?”

“Course Da,” says I. “Course I would.”

“There’s me gal,” says he with a smile. “If’n I had a son, I wouldn’t tink of askin’ ya this. What I’m ’bout ta ask ya is somepin I’ve been saving for me son, a quest as it were, somepin ta prove his manhood for all the world. But I never had a son, yur all I’ve got in this world. Yur smart as a whip, ya are. So I have faith in ya ta do what I’m askin’. It’ll take bravery, and it’ll take courage, and when you come back round, you’ll be double the woman of any other in the village I wager.”

“I can do it, Da,” says I. “Tell me what it is.”

“That’s good,” says he. His eyes were tired and he had trouble lifting his head ta look at me so I put me hand on his chest and tried ta smile. Truth was, I was really quite nervous.

“Have I ever told ya ’bout the Putrid Corpse?” asks he.

“No Da,” says I. I curled me lip in disgust. “Ya must be jokin’, ay? Are ya wantin’ me ta dig up a corpse?”

“It’s a drink, Ruth. A very special drink,” he smiled at my reaction, a tired smile. “It’s a kind of Gin made in the east, in Sundale, Victania. Oh, and it is marvelous. It comes in a black bottle without so much as a label but ya can tell it’s Putrid Corpse by the cork. Upon it is burned an image of a dead man’s face with X’s through the eyes and his tongue stickin’ out.”

“That is vile,” says I, unbelieving what me Da was goin’ on about. How could he care so much for a thing such as this? Why would he choose ta talk about it in his final days?

“It is,” he laughed, “It is, it is! A vile image and a vile name. And it come’s from a vile place. But Ruth, let me tell ya about the flavor. God created the Earth in six days and on the seventh day he rested. Do ya know what he did on that seventh day while he rested, Ruth? He poured hiself a glass of liquor so powerful and so pure that it reminded him exactly of the world he created. The liquor, it reminded him of the waterfalls, of the sounds they make and mist they splash up. The liquor, it reminded him of the sea and the storms which make it rage. It reminded him of the mountains and the sky above them and the place in the middle where they meet. It was a perfect liquor.

“Many years have passed since that day, Ruth,” he sighed. “And through those years man has tried ta distill a drink as powerful and pure as the one God hiself drank the day after creation. They’ve tried with potatoes and grapes and grains of all sarts. Many a good drink has been made. There have been vodkas and whiskeys and wines that open yur eyes and caress yur tongue. But Ruth, oh Ruth, they all fall dastardly short. All except one. All except The Putrid Corpse Extra Special Reserve Gin.

“Now,” he continued, “This drink is made by a consortment of the most vile of men. They live’s in a vile neighborhood known only as The Gin District. A district named after them own selves, if ya can believe it. This neighborhood is located in the most vile of countries, Victania. How a God fearing man can live within her borders and sleep at night, I do not know.

“Before I get ta me dyin’ request,” he continued, “I have a few stories ta tell. Three stories, as it aught ta be, and as luck would have it. I’ve lived a long life, Ruth. A life fraught with trials and tribulations, but even with those struggles came joy. And three times, joy came in the way of The Putrid Corpse Extra Special Reserve Gin. If she were a lady, she would be the most sultry and sought after of women, but also the most unattainable. Ya see, The Putrid Corpse Extra Special Reserve has a few particularities about it. First, it’s only available in the pub attached ta the distillery where it is created. Ta remove a bottle from the premises equals death for many men. Thus it is a delicacy which has cost the lives of countless dreamers. Bare that in mind whilst I’m telling me stories.”