Four-Oh Boys
A Story of Melting
“Haha, yooo,” Doug said and jogged the rest of the way to duck under the bridge.
The creek separating our section from the neighboring highway bubbled along at an easy pace. By the time I stepped around the moving water and between the concrete pillars, he was already holding it.
All forty ounces of malt liquor still sat inside the glass bottle. The label was mostly intact, but it bore some wrinkles from being handled while wet.
“Jackpot, bro,” he said, holding it up higher as if I couldn’t already tell what it was.
“I dunno,” I said. “How do we know it’s not just hobo piss in there?”
Doug gave the bottlecap a twist, and it loosened with a series of clicks. “Sounds like I’m the first to break the seal.”
“Well, whatever. I’m sure it’s warm as hobo piss.”
He shrugged one shoulder before opening the bottle and tilting it over his open mouth. He tried to hide his instinctive grimace by putting on a neutral expression after he swallowed. I spotted it, though, and I wasn’t surprised. I’d heard alcohol tasted bad, that it tasted even worse if it wasn’t cold.
Doug grinned as if he detected my apprehension. “It’s not exactly chilled, but it’s not warm either. Come on.” He held the forty out to me. “Try some.”
I snatched the bottle and put it to my lips. As I took a whiff of its yeasty odor, I put together what it was I always smelled on my grandfather and uncles’ clothes when I was younger. It was this stuff or something like it—a different brand or type, perhaps.
“What are you waiting for, pussy?” Doug said, and I wondered, not for the first time, why I hung around him so much.
Nevertheless, I held my breath, closed my eyes, and took a sip.
Doug must have told someone because by that Monday at school, it had already gotten around that we drank a forty we found. The older kids acted differently toward us, giving us high-fives in the hallway and calling us the Four-Oh boys. It was surreal.
Even Renz who usually bullied Doug for lunch money and me for answers to exams acted like we were cool all of a sudden. He asked tons of questions about how the beer tasted and what it felt like to get drunk.
Not gonna lie, it was a good day.
But that Tuesday, Doug didn’t show up for school. He was absent on Wednesday too.
I figured he just had the flu or something, but he didn’t answer his phone when I called him, which got me worried. So, I rode my bike to his house Wednesday evening to bring him his homework from the days he missed.
As soon as I walked inside his house, I could tell something was wrong. The place smelled awful—like a fish tank in desperate need of a water change. I scrunched my face and did a quick scan of my surroundings. Seeing nothing, I called out Doug’s name. No one responded, so I kept looking around.
I started noticing other things that seemed off. Dirty dishes were stacked in the sink, a rarity for Doug’s house. His father was a bit of a neurotic and never left dishes unwashed for a more than a few hours.
More distressing than that was the film of translucent ooze that glistened in places on the walls and furniture.
I called Doug’s name again. I called for his parents. No response.
At least not at first.
A gurgling moan emanated from somewhere inside the house. It sounded like it was coming from the basement. More of that slime was drizzled over the ajar basement door and confirmed the sound’s origin for me.
I knew I shouldn’t go down those stairs, but bullheaded curiosity drove me forward. After all, the burbling syllables sounded sort of like Doug. And sort of like he was saying my name.
Sure, he was kind of a jerk, got me in all sorts of trouble, and called me a pussy if I didn’t do something he wanted me to do, but he was the only real friend I had. If he was in trouble, I had to see what was up and if there was something I could do to help.
I crept down the steps, and each creaked under my weight like the death rattle of a wooden doll. My pulse accelerated. I could feel it thumping like a bass drum. When I reached the bottom step, I turned. Looked across the basement.
Wished like fuck I hadn’t.
A gelatinous mound the color of malt liquor rested atop the pool table Doug’s mother had gotten him two Christmas’s ago. The mass expanded and contracted with a squelching sound that churned my guts. And in that mess, I heard the voice. Doug’s voice. Doing its damnedest to say my name.
But Doug was gone. In his place was this thing, this blob of malt liquor ooze.
Beyond this abominable mutation, against the far wall, lay two skeletons that had to have once been Doug’s parents.
With a scream I’m not too proud to say sounded like a scared little girl’s, I hoofed it back of the stairs like my shoes had caught fire. Once I left the house, I mounted my bike and pedaled home, trying not to think about the fact that I’d drunk that hobo piss too. I hoped—prayed—that because I hadn’t drunk as much of it as Doug, I wouldn’t turn into something like that thing living in his basement.
My eyes stung with tears, and my legs burned with exertion, as the wind blew in my face. This wasn’t fair. Just two days ago, we were the Four-Oh Boys. Cool for the first time ever. Now, Doug was no longer Doug. I wasn’t sure how much was left of my frustrating friend inside that gooey mass, but I hoped, for his sake, he was dead. Existence as a man-eating blob of malt liquor jelly couldn’t be any way to live.
Just as I had that thought, my tears rolled over my lips, and I licked them away.
They tasted like alcohol.
I’m sorry this one’s late! I do try to get these newsletters out every Monday now, but this weekend was more packed than expected. I figure I made up for it by putting out two last week. Hopefully, you agree. If you liked that story, perhaps you’ll enjoy some of my books. My latest Haunted Hearts is available directly from the publisher at the button below, plus all the usual book places.
Loved this. The ending is awesome.
This fuckin rules. It’s a beauty of a trope given a hell of a shot. Pun intended.