Whiskey Sour Noir (The Hard Stuff) - Plot & Excerpts
He held up a red plastic cup and said in a newscaster voice, “This here’s the oldest whisky made in Ireland. Distilled since 1608. Used for medicinal purposes and to settle down the faithful so they wouldn’t uprise or fuck around.” He was in a mood. I shucked off my skirt and padded toward the bathroom sink to wash the salt and sand from my hands and feet. “Irish whisky was only produced in monasteries back in the 1300s,” he rattled on. “By the Scottish monks, too. Finally, production passed into the sinners’ hands sometime in the 1500s. But the government taxes were such a killer, folks ducked them and distilled at night. That’s where the word moonshine comes from. All the brogue drunks, making their hooch by moonlight.” I didn’t know that. But then again, so fucking what? “That bourbon you drink, the mash is largely corn. This here’s malt. Been distilled three times, and aged maybe two, three years.” I moved closer. His eyes were glassy, the lids heavy and pink.
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