Have A Drink On Me

📅 Published on May 28, 2023

“Have A Drink On Me”

Written by Dale Thompson
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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In simple terms, I cannot write the story as it happened.  I must dumb it down for those critics who refuse to delve into a simple dictionary.  Let us move on in the simplicity of common language that we all might understand.

The bar was noisy, and the band was ear-splitting.  Algol sat, observing the shenanigans and chuckling like a child to himself.  Wretched pathetic humanity, he thought quietly to himself.  Algol was a handsome man with deep pockets and loved to buy drinks for his friends.  He was also a demon, a ghoul in costume masquerading as a mortal man.

Algol was a demon that fed off the inebriated and encouraged people to drink more, which allowed their inhibitions to run wild and let down their guards.  Anyone trafficking with a devil was playing with fire.  Everyone at the bar was drinking.  Everyone except Algol, who soberly was thinking of mischief and treachery.  “Make them pay for their ignorance, their slothfulness, their lust and greed.”    He had studied mankind for centuries, and he concluded man was ignorant, but they were also unaware that they were ignorant.

“What is your poison?” Algol mused, knowing alcohol was a wonderful truth serum, practically as good as sodium pentothal.  His job was to precipitate them to drunken insanity.  He, as a maligned spirit, sought to destroy his victims.  His patience and resilience were commendable.  He knew sooner or later, the human would fail and take the very last sip, which would change the course of their life forever.  Convince them to resuscitate with alcohol; all your problems would go away.  Courage in a bottle, they say.  All he had to do was to hold the golden cup of booze out to them, full of abominations and the filthiness of the woman clothed in purple and scarlet and adorned in gold, precious stones, and pearls.  His god was Jezebel, and he adored her committedly.

Algol could crawl behind the eyes, causing madness.  It happened so quickly that a person did not realize they had trusted in dreams and imaginations when life was exuberant.

Algol could convince a person of practically anything.  He also made promises he had no intention of keeping.  His travels were a burning flute where smoke would ascend at the foot of Golgotha, the place of the skull.  He could telepathically use his gift to get inside the mind and influence a person thinking.  Once he dragged the drunkard to the foot of the crucified Christ, he would mock the Savior bitterly, all while displaying the bound prize before him exclaiming, “Here is another one you have lost to me.  Can you save him?” Algol mocked the Savior laughing insanely before disappearing.  He was a nefarious monster who flaunted his puissant evil.

Algol called what he did an avocation, yet it was his occupation.  His job was to ply people with liquor.  He did this better than anyone.  The best days were the weekends.  This was when people walked out of their normal lives to display their foolishness, and without shame, they exposed more and more of their darker sides the more they drank.  Some added illicit drug use to their abuses.  He was notorious among the other demons and ghouls; his reputation and prominence were unparalleled.

Saturday was the caliginous of nights, and Algol had returned from his desert place where he connived and contrived for his deception of a wayward soul later on.  He spent days in a desert place draped in a black cloak of hate.  Love for him was the antithesis of hatred.  In his current transcendence of thought, his imagination concocted blasphemous abominations and twisted counterfeit and pseudo-Christ.  He was anxious to implement his diabolic scheme.  He told himself: tonight, I will offer another before the crucified and the Lord of Hades.

Algol basked in supreme wretchedness.  He was most proud of his work and hoped that his Dark Master would reward him in kind.  He rested, for he had more to accomplish.  He had come a long way from being just part of the legion to now having the freedom to come and go at his leisure.  His lust was murder by alcohol, and he was very good at it.  He had caused many a man and woman to end their own existence before their time.  People had allowed him an audience, and he took full advantage.

“Destroy the flesh, reap the soul,” he bragged.

Dressed all in black, Algol made his way into the town.  He stood out from among the rest, for he was tall, quite handsome, and he was dressed to the nines.  The casino was the best place to find a broken heart who was wishing their life away.  At first, he thought, “This is too easy.  Maybe I should pass on this one?  I need a challenge.  Oh, what the hell; I will take him.”  Algol was writing a new mythos tonight.  He would introduce himself to the man in a noumenon way just to break the ice. Less was more.

Algol sat next to the man who appeared to be nursing a beer.  He was middle-aged, dressed neatly yet not expensive.  Algol greeted him congenitally and asked him, “What are you drinking?”

The man did not appear to want company, but he answered, “Just getting smashed on beer tonight.”

“Let me buy you a round,” Algol said.

“That is swell of you.  My name is Hank.”  Although Hank was suspicious of this good-natured guy he had just met, Hank thought he had incredible genteel politeness.  But what he did not know was Algol touched nothing, which he did not purposely defile.

Algol smiled mendaciously and introduced himself.  “You can call me Al.” The two men shook hands as a gesture of their new friendship.

Algol was having fantasies raging in his mind of Hank swimming in blood after being mutilated by his own capable hands.  His reverie was shattered when the bartender slid their drinks over to them.

“Are you a gambling man?” Algol asked.

“Oh,’ not really.  I play the pokies once in a while, but I never have any luck.”

“Luck?  That is something I have a lot of.  People say I bring luck to others.  If you want to play, I will go with you.  Maybe I can bring you some luck tonight,” Algol offered.

“Good luck, huh?”

Algol smiled.  “Great fortunes.”

“Sure, I got $10 bucks to spend.”  Hank skulled his beer and led the way into the gaming room.

Algol thought, “What a worthless soul.”  He yearned desperately for his blood.

Algol, in fact, was bringing Hank good luck.  Hank was on a roll.  Algol thought of himself as a virtuous being, venerable and above all others.  He would point out his generosity, willing to keep the booze flowing for all of his friends.  His confidence gave encouragement to others, so Hank was easily played.  He was feeling so confident he hit the roulette wheel, and his pockets were stuffed with dollars.  At the same time, Hank was being handed drink after drink.  Algol was a spirited fountain for him.  Copious amounts of wine and spirits were being consumed by Hank.  When he could hardly stand, that was when the casino escorted the two men out.  Their reasons?  First, they were not losing, and second, Hank had become belligerent.

Algol helped his friend to another bar and propped him up on a bar stool.  Hank steadied himself. “My wife is going to wonder where I am,” he slurred his words, and his eyes went in and out of focus.

“Don’t you worry, ol’ buddy.  I told your wife you would be late tonight.  “Let us drink it up!”

Algol was drowning Hank.  “Al, what do you do for a living?”  Again, Hank could barely put his words together, but he was happy to snag the whiskey sour from the bar.

“I am an Eidolon.  It is an elusive job.  I work in allegories.  Sometimes I make it up as I go.  No two days are the same.  My real talent is abstraction, anthropomorphism.  Have you heard of that?” Algol asked, placing his hand on Hank’s shoulder to keep him vertical.

“Anthropo whata whata?” Hank was not able to focus.

“Down the hatch, you poor bastard!” Algol shouted and downed his drink.

Hank followed suit and laughed crazily as he fell from the stool.  Algol, with his amazing inhuman strength, manhandled Hank as if he was a small child.  So as to not draw any more attention than they already had, Algol carried Hank out on the street.

“You know what we need,” Algol asked

, not fazed by any of his own alcohol consumption.

“What do we need?”  Hank was drooling, unaware.

“We need a liquor store.  You know, a nightcap,” Algol suggested.  The two found a bottle shop, and Algol came out with absinthe.

“This will put you in a good place,” Algol promised.

Hank was unable to walk, but it was no problem for Algol.  He hefted Hank straight up and squeezed him tight against his body, and carried him into a lightless alley.  In the alley with Hank now sitting on the ground, Algol slapped him in the face twice to bring him back to consciousness.

Hank’s eyes opened, his pupils dilated to the size of pin heads.  “There we go, ol’ Hank.  Here, this will wake you up.”  Algol opened the bottle.

“Oh no.  That stuff kills famous people,” Hank mumbled.

“You didn’t tell me you were famous,” Algol laughed.

“You are right; I am not,” Hank took the bottle from him.

He turned it up like a bottle of wine.

“There you go.  You are going to be famous, my friend,” Algol said, encouragingly.

Like a hero, Hank drank the absinthe straight until he fell to his side.  What was left of the bottle spilled out onto the gritty alleyway.  “Good boy.  What a hero,” Algol said as he rolled Hank over onto his back.

“Here is the good news, Hank.  Well, there are two good things.  You are about to see Jesus, and you no longer feel any sorrow for friends that have gone on before you.  What I have given you is a gift.  Death is a gift; you are a treasure.  Wait until you walk through those pearly gates.  You will be met with shouts of admiration and storms of applause.”

Calvary’s Hill appeared before them.  Hank was dead from asphyxiation, but he was conscious but unable to speak.  He was bound from head to feet with terrified eyes.  The wooden cross highlighted the skyline.

Two malefactors were displayed on crosses with the Savior between them.

“Are you enjoying this?” Algol screamed at the Savior, who spoke not a word.  “You can see me.  You know I am here.  I have offered you the world, and this is how you want to be?  Naked, beaten, you look like poorly chopped meat.”

The Savior remained silent.

“Look!  Look what I have.  I have another one of your children.  Mine!  He is mine!  Do you hear me?”

It was at that time a Roman soldier carried a crurifragium, which was a iron club.  He smashed the knees of the first man.  He howled in anguish and slumped, unable to hold his weight any longer.  The Roman soldier Longinus went to the second crucified thief and broke his legs as well with the same sort of howling.  He walked to Jesus and saw he was already dead.  He thrust his sword into his side, and Algol screamed out!

“I win!  I win again!” He vociferated.

The following week Algol was resting in abysmal darkness.  He despised the light.  His dreams were the collection of lost souls.  He dreamed of the head of John the Baptist that was served on a silver platter.  He dreamed of Judas Iscariot, who hanged himself after betraying the Savior.  Algol opened his devious eyes and made plans for the night’s activities.  He was going on the hunt to track, trace and capture another unexpecting victim.  This would be a night of wine, passion, and intoxication. The world was full of sinfulness, and for this reason, Algol never wanted to leave his assignment. Emboldened with his thoughts of unleashing another ill-omen upon some unexpecting soul while he gnawed on the bones of Hank, inhaling the smell of human flesh; this appeased his lust for death.

This night he wanted a challenge.  He wanted to drive someone into delirium tremens and paralysis. He took to the air, for demons are as comfortable floating through the atmosphere as they are walking upright on two legs.  He was not airborne long before it was time to put his astral feet down onto something solid.  He landed on the roof of a club he frequented and, as usual, made his entrance from the upper levels, where a door was always conveniently opened to him.  He glided down the stairwell and entered the main room where the music was thumping, and the party had started.  He thought, “Now, this is ripe for the taking.”

“Who do we have here?” Algol made a B-line toward a young woman who stood at the bar with the most gloriously awesome hair he had ever seen.  She appeared to be all alone, but Algol did not care.  He wanted this one.  To seduce her and to intoxicator her until death made his skin tingle. “The more beautiful, the sweeter the death.”  He was practically panting like a wild beast as he reached her.  Her full lips and wanton eyes lured him in.  If he had a heart, it would have exploded from his savage chest.  He knew he had to regain his composure.  Never before had the lust to destroy a human being so intense.  He craved her, her scent; her beauty was majestic, stunning, captivating.  It seemed like a real waste to take her, but his desiderations compelled him.  The word “manducation” formed on his lips.  Yes, she was Christ-like, glowing like a star among dead planets.

Politely composed, Algol asked, “May I buy you a drink?”

The resplendent woman turned and looked Algol in the eye.  “That is how bad things begin.”

Impressed with the comeback, Algol replied, “We can only hope.  Now what are you drinking?  He smiled a devilish grin from the corner of his mouth.  It was one of those facial gestures of absolute self-assurance.

The woman turned away from him as uninterested but then turned back to face him.  “I do not mind mixing drinks.  Let us see what your taste is, that will tell me more about you and why you wish to buy me a drink when it is obvious I am capable of ordering my own,” she said, returning the enigmatic smile showing her perfect pearl white teeth.

Algol ordered her a Tom Collins, a gin concoction with gin, lemon juice and water.  She nodded with approval and held out her hand to give him a light touch.  “My name is Sedecla.”

Algol was impressed.  She had given her name without him asking.  He thought, “She will be mine.”

With lurid speculations, Algol played his game.  He was void of human feelings and emotions, numb to the aspect of love and hate.  He was sensate and acted entirely upon his devilish drive to gain satisfaction.  After she had accepted more than a few drinks from Algol, she suggested they go back to her place.  She said, “I have a fully stocked bar at home, and if you are trying to get me drunk, it might be nice to have a soft bed nearby.”  She gave him a seductive wink.  For what he had planned, he should have been riven with guilt and shame; instead, he was emboldened with domination and murder.  She told Algol she would drive, and he agreed since he had no mode of transportation.  The drive was a mere 5 minutes away.  She was quiet along the way; Algol allowed her last minutes to be still because he said to himself, “Things are about to get ugly.”

Sedecla lived in a lovely two-story house.  Although the color was darker than the nearby houses, it was of the same design.  She unlocked the door, and the two entered.  It was dark; Sedecla did not hurry to turn on the lights.  She disappeared from Algol’s sight, and he had exceptional human sight. In this form of a man, he was somewhat limited with his diabolism and powers but was more of a man than any still.

“Where are you?” he asked, feet firmly planted.  Somewhat baffled, he hoped she was preparing herself for he was going to have fun with this one before her demise.  “Are you near?” he asked again, practically salivating with anticipation.  This one was a wild one, he thought.  She can really handle her drink.  His mind went through the scenario of how he was going to dictate the night.  All to his favor.  He was still undecided on how the drink would be forced down her throat.  “Maybe in the bathtub,” he considered.  “Yes, drowning while drinking, I like it.”

“I am near, my dear man.  Sufficient to say, imperatively speaking, you are as criminally tactless as I imagined you.”

Algol waved her words perpetually aside as if he was deflecting them.

The lights flickered twice and went to full brightness, much more luminous than normal lights. Algol’s eyes quickly adjusted, and he did not believe what he was seeing.  Her enormous foyer was a witch’s den with fuming cauldrons, basins of infernal murk, enormous vats, flaming athanors, necromantic braziers and repugnant thuribles.  It was a laboratory, and he was standing in the center of it all.  On the floor was a circle of ash in which he was encased.

“The purport of this incantation is one of retribution.  Since the year of my sister’s murder, I have lived with an ineffaceable conviction.” The manifold enormity of his current condition was realized. “You are the murderer!”

“I do not know what you are talking about.  I do not know your sister!” Algol exclaimed, seeing he was in a moribund situation.  “What was your sister’s name?” He was vexed in thought, broached by memories of the haunting murder; not the murder itself, but that he left a blood trail to be followed. “Unmerciful oblivion,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Her name shall not be spoken here, demon.  I am about to change your sensibilities.  You are a contingent being, and if you notice, this circle cuts you off from your source.  It is tantamount that your expulsion occurs tonight.  There is a huge difference between having a bad dream and living a nightmare.  Your nightmare is just beginning!”

“You are making a mistake,” he repudiated.  “I did not murder your sister.  You have it all wrong,” he averred in desperation, all the while his eyes probed for a way to escape.

“You are trapped, Algol, in a circle of ash.  The ash is from the mighty oak, which sacrificed itself to me for this day, and the ashes of my sister, which you destroyed.  Her ashes will bear witness to your utter destruction.  I have carried this pain, the loss, the emptiness until this day.  This day you shall be no more, demon!”  Her voice had become sardonic, spilling out cruelty and malice toward Algol.

Malignant fires lit in his primly fixed eyes.  He would plead no more.  He was becoming enraged.  He attempted to leave the circle she had designed, but an invisible force pushed him back.  He let out execrable curses and lifted fisted hands above his head.  With splenetic bitterness, he threatened her, “You shall die, just like your wretched sister!”

Undaunted by Algol’s madness, Sedecla continued her work, increasing the power of the circle through incantations.  Accursed shadows appeared within the circle, murmuration’s of black patterns, flowing together, swishing above him out of reach.  Algol’s pain-pinched expression revealed he was helpless under her illicit spell.  There was heard a laconic echo from the murmuration as if they had called Algol’s name.  His voice became equivocally monotone, mirthless as if mocking yet searching for resolution.  Finding himself immured, he asked, “What can I do to appease you?  There must be something I can offer you, to reconcile what cannot be undone.  You have my utmost abject apologies.  I know what I have done is deplorable, indefensible.  Give me a chance to make things right.  There is a sharp dichotomy between good and evil, but it is two sides of the same coin…”

Sedecla interrupted his useless appeal for reconciliation.  “There is something; you can be expelled from this world, never to return.  My familiars, which swarm above your pathetic head, are just waiting for me to order this.”

With more dreadful incantations, the witch’s triumph lingered in his ears and seized command of him, prevailing like a great murrain eating at him like an incurable disease.  All machinations begotten by hell were ignoring his incoherent appeals and pleas.  “Will you not have mercy, just this one time?”

“This is retribution and revenge!  You have committed an unforgivable sin.  Your unhallowed quest has ended tonight!” was her answer.

He met her prophecy with rebuke and damnable cachinnation.  His mad maledictions were powerless.  His obscenities turned into blasphemies.  He was entirely insatiable, ranting of rapine and carnage, threatening belligerently in a portentous display of juvenility.  Churning in his head, he could only imagine defeat.

“Get it all out, demon, for you soon will be voiceless.”  The lights flickered; there was a flash and then darkness for a few seconds.  When the room relit, the artificial light was gone, and the room magically was lit with hundreds of guttering candles.  Sedecla was the indomitable one becoming the viscid nightmare in Algol’s mind.  He growled, showing his stalactites fangs.

“I have hunted you.  You shall never forget my sister again.  She will be your eternal torment after this night.”

Algol’s human body began to melt from his devilish frame revealing the demon beneath.  His mind became scattered like a colossal tenement, breaking into fragmented pieces of transmigration, splitting the marvels of profundity.  He stood unveiled in his true diabolical form as if he had emerged from the oubliette confinement of veritable human flesh.  The demon in all his Tartarean luster, charnel flesh crawling like attached worms, glared at Sedecla with murderous eyes as his killing hands twitched.  His lips drew back and shriveled in his mouth, and he began to choke upon his own obscenities, writhing and groaning in guttural agonies.  His body distorted juicily as one being twisted and rung out.

Prodigious in her methods, she had been effective calling the true demon forward to be revealed. The enigma of his demise was indeed mystifying, a lost memory, remembered no more.  The weight of imminent doom dropped upon him like a stone.  He was unaware, not prepared for this unimagined event which forever altered his inexorable course.  The dark murmuration which had formed over his head fell upon him, stripping him of any and all of his umbrageous powers.  A devouring heated breath of sweeping transparency washed over him and inhaled him into a fiery riff that had opened beneath him, sucking him into the black ages of the damned.  He commanded no more upon the earth.  His stupendously harrowing discourse, which he had imposed upon others, ended.

He howled like a wounded animal in a scathing barrage of profanities, powerless to stop his infinitesimal vanquishment.

“Your suffering shall never cease.  You shall not rest.  You shall not sleep.  Your cries for clemency shall be muted.  You are receiving the same mercy you showed to my sister the day you took her from me.  Eternal agony and pain!  Because you have no soul, you filthy beast, the confusion of why this is happening to you will be the worst of it.  You do not know right and wrong.  But you will know damnation.  Now be gone, devil!”

He perished out of time, soullessly, drawn away through fathomless eons into an unfamiliar blind void without redemption.  His exit through time and space attracted the Hounds of Tindalos.  These titular creatures with their hollow tongues were on his scent.  He soon would face the monstrous merciless pack, which can only be defined with one word, “athirst.”

He was in a space between worlds where the light turns in on itself.  In this timeless realm, having failed in his calling, he was met with the inquisitorial wrath from his Dark Master.

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

Written by Dale Thompson
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: Dale Thompson

Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

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10 months ago

Sorry, but I hope that disclaimer at the start isn’t a way for you to get back at people who criticise you for raiding your Thesaurus for every 100-dollar word available. There’s no other reason that should even be there.
And for someone who claimed this story would be in simple English, you can’t seem to stop yourself from being overly florid in every sentence. No one talks like your characters do, and that’s not a good thing.

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