Inebriated Harbors

Inebriated Harbors

Ron Koppelberger

He was drinking whiskey and tonic. The exasperation in his composure was a barking sojourner to the red eyed renown that he was legendarily known for. Hours swam across the boundary between sober awareness and drunken resistance…he doubted the messy grip sworn by his rejection of the hag. He drank because of the hag, the enemy of the sane man, the purveyor of misery, the invader, the cheap solution to the rebuke of presidents and rich dogs. She was there he knew she was, in spirit, “I hate you!” she screamed at him for the fortieth time, “I hate you for hate’s sake Corvin Farb!” He downed another whiskey and rubbed his forehead; it came away bloody, had he fallen? He wasn’t sure the night had passed in a blur.
The hag screamed again, “I hate you Corvin!” Corvin tasted the sour air tinged with cigar smoke and sweat. He grabbed the decanter and poured the glass full again. She was his haunt, his demon, the hag. He looked to the far side of the room with sudden remembrance. There she was in wood and brass chimes, in wood and brass chimes, “Time Corvin!” she screamed from the cherry wood cabinet that held her pendulum, “Time!” the clock tolled the hour of midnight and corvin fell to the floor in a heap.
The next day the coroner deemed Corvin Farb, the richest man in the country to have died from alcohol poisoning, the estate and the grandfather clock went to his eldest son who remarked,
“The time for my father’s exit was marked by his wont for the drink and the desire of his mistress, the will of misdirected times and ages spent in excess.”