"Thirsty Saint" - 09/15/09

Raphael Saint cursed, the rest of his vocabulary having left him long ago. His temper has getting the best of him, but few would blame him given his current situation. Sweat ran down his entire body, his armor having been shed hours ago. It seared his skin in the blistering heat of the engine room. His undersuit had been discarded as well, having done little more than trap the heat inside. He pondered whether the outfit he came into the world wearing would be the one he left it in as well.

Steam poured up from the metal grates that constituted the floor, turning the small maintenance room into the sauna from hell. The only light came from the glowing coils of a nearby engine. Using his undersuit as a sort of oven mitt, Raphael picked up his metal flask and unscrewed the cap. He was treated to a small blast of hot air, and then held the flask over his head, preparing to pour his favorite refreshment into his waiting mouth. Instead, he felt a thick paste flow onto his tongue with a heavy taste of whiskey. Spitting it aside, he cursed his luck. His only drink had evaporated, leaving him with only highly concentrated fermented goo.

Tossing the flask aside, Saint leaned back against the wall behind him, his head tilted up staring at the ceiling. His mind began to wander over all the different types of drinks there was to be had, just out of his reach; Whiskey, Malt Whiskey, Whiskey Sour, Lossian Amber (a whiskey). Now, he wasn’t an alcoholic; not anymore at least. Alcoholics drink to get drunk, and too much drinking had given him too high a tolerance to get drunk anymore. He once drank to forget, but now was unable to. He once drank to relieve his stress, but there wasn’t enough drink for that anymore. Now he drank out of habit.

He had come down here to find more to drink. Having depleted his other stocks hidden throughout the ship over the course of the long journey, he had wandered in here looking for more only to lock himself in and remember that he had deemed this place long ago as unfit. The reason? It was too hot. Now he sat naked, cursing to himself and dying of thirst while he sweated out the last of his alcohol.

In case he was found, he started mentally going over his other hiding places. The bridge? No, he emptied that one last week. Behind the mirror in the men’s room? Nope, that one was gone yesterday.
He snapped his fingers, remembering the secret store he kept behind the “2 drink maximum” sign hanging in the mess. He had six or seven bottles in there; surely a couple should still be left. He cursed again, remembering that he had finished off the last one earlier that day. His mind quickly raced, trying to remember another location.

There was a hum as the electronic lock released on the door, and it slid open to reveal a figure standing in the doorway. Getting to his feet, Raphael blinked a couple times to adjust to the new light streaming in from the corridor. Walking over to the door, he sighed as he had to gently push the stunned crewwoman out of his way. Shaking a bit of the sweat off, he began walking away, in need of some fresh clothes. First, however, he needed to make a stop off at the ammo room. There were still two bottles of whiskey nestled between the ammo crates there.

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You can't make fun of others without poking fun at yourself, and from that notion this story was born. It blows up Saint's wet habit, though at times this story could almost pass as canon as well. Who knows what you'll find at the bottom of a bottle!