100 Cocktails Later

I decided to kill him with cocktails. Granted, it’s not the traditional method but I’ve always been a sucker for making a splash. I called him one dreary Sunday afternoon, positively purring down the phone, and invited him over for drinks. I just didn’t mention how many…

10 Cocktails Later – We’re cosied up on the sofa in my swanky, Chelsea flat; candles flickering, incense burning and alcohol flowing. I’ve poured myself into a lacy, all in one number and he’s practically drooling over me as I pour him another Margarita. We’ve had five each, except he doesn’t know that my last three have been lemon squash. I mustn’t lose my sharpness after all. Not when there’s killing to be done!

20 Cocktails Later – He’s schlurring all hish words like a silly, lickle baby. I gently prise the Cosmopolitan from his nasty, meaty hand and place it next to all the other empty glasses on the coffee table. I almost topple over as I pull him from the sofa but manage to half coax, half drag him to the kitchen where I tie him to a chair.

“Knew you’d be a wild one” he smirks, letting his eyes roam over my body.

“Oh Jason, you have no idea” I say, reaching for the cocktail mixer.

30 Cocktails Later – His head is lolling to the side, eyes closed, moaning softly as I line up the Piña Coladas. I tut to myself.

“Can’t have you falling asleep yet, the fun’s just beginning. Luckily, you can’t have a Piña Colada without getting caught in the rain.”

I drag a bucket of icy water from the bathroom and heave it over him. He shrieks, thrashing around in the chair whilst I watch him from a safe distance. The water seems to have done the trick as he is looking far more alert, eyeing the line of drinks warily.

“I think I might have had enough now.”

I allow a slow smile to spread across my face as I advance with the next little tipple.

40 Cocktails Later – I’ve worked up quite a sweat over the last ten drinks. Apparently Long Island Iced Tea isn’t Jason’s favourite. There’s been an awful lot of yelling and pleading and retching and crying. I’ve had to slap him a few times just to get him to quieten down. The rope around his neck seems to be doing the trick though,as he can’t move his head away whilst I’m funneling the cocktails down his throat. As I reminded him earlier, it’s drink or drown…

50 Cocktails Later – Things have gotten a little distasteful. Jason appears to have wet himself and he’s thrown up all over the floor. I find a man who can’t handle his liquor very unattractive and I’m also rather offended - it seems a dreadful waste of the Daiquiris.

60 Cocktails Later – We’re on to the White Russians and things are getting serious. It’s time to set up the IV Drip. The needle slides perfectly into the vein. With the alcohol drip, drip, dropping directly into his bloodstream, I finally get a chance to sit back and relax with a drink of my own. I hadn’t realised murder would be quite so draining.

70 Cocktails Later – I almost feel a little sorry for Jason, sitting there all bloated stomach and blue tinged skin, Bloody Mary's filtering through his body. But then I get to thinking about why I chose him and suddenly I don’t feel quite so bad. He certainly wasn't feeling guilty when he was forcing himself on that poor girl from my office. Everyone had blamed it on "a few too many" and brushed it under the carpet. Except me, of course. I'd just bided my time.

80 Cocktails Later – Mojito o’clock. It won't be long now. I can sense Death’s presence lingering in the ether, biding its time patiently until it can pounce on my delicious offering. I expect Death gets bored of all the mundane methods through which its bodies usually arrive; car crashes, shootings, heart attacks and the like. I’ve given him something special, a real party piece to spice things up on the other side.

90 Cocktails Later - Jason's barely breathing now. I pour another Martini into the IV bag. He starts fitting, his body jerking wildly in the chair, its last attempt to fight against the crushing certainty of death, now that the mind can no longer function. He bites his tongue and blood spurts from his mouth, showering the black kitchen tiles in specks of red. Death is slowly reeling him in and his body is frantically trying not to succumb. I am surprised to find that he is beautiful in his desperation not to die. I think we are ready for the final ten.

100 Cocktails Later – The body sits lifeless in the chair. I sip my Singapore Sling, savouring the taste of success.