Drunk on a Plane
The Misadventures of a Drunk in Paradise: Book 1
Zane Mitchell
Drunk on a Plane
The Misadventures of a Drunk in Paradise: Book #1
by
Zane Mitchell
Copyright © 2018 by Zane Mitchell
ISBN: 9781792646454
ASIN: B07MKFW4G7
VS: 01312019.05
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
Listen on Audio!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Hey there, it’s Zane…
Manny’s Cool and Deadly Recipe
SNEAK PEEK - Drunk on a Boat
Chapter 1
Drunk on a Boat
About Zane
To my grandfather,
The OG that made Al real.
I miss you.
Kiss Grandma for me.
Listen on Audio!
Drunk on a Plane is now available to listen to in audio!
The actor, Christopher Boucher, narrates and does an outstanding job capturing the essence and the humor of the characters in the book.
Here’s a quick link to the Audible US store. Here you can download it on audio or just listen to a sample to check out his work!
If you’re new to Audible, they usually give you the first book or two for free, just to try it out.
If you prefer to purchase on Amazon, iTunes, or Audible outside of the US, click here and you’ll be taken to my website where I have the complete list of links.
1
Monday, February 19, 2018
Alright, so let me preface my story by saying—you’re not going to believe it. Even if I told you the whole goddamned story, you’d still say that I made it up. But haven’t you heard the saying that truth is stranger than fiction? Alright, then. Repeat after me. Truth is stranger than fiction. Okay. Got it? Good.
Now, I’m gonna start with the basics. This is where your brain’s gonna start telling you you’d be better off putting your money on Blockbuster stock than on me. Hey, who knows, VHS might make a comeback someday, right? I mean I hear vinyl’s making a return, so you never know.
My name is Drunk. Daniel T. Drunk, Jr. if you wanna know what it says on my MasterCard. I’m T or T-Bone to Mikey, my best buddy since the second grade. My mother calls me Terrence, which, if you’ve got half a brain, you’ve figured out is what the T stands for. Pops calls me Junior. You? You can just call me Drunk.
Lemme start by telling you the benefits of having a name such as Drunk. First of all, no one expects much out of you. In fact, they expect you to be blitzed eighty to ninety percent of the time. When you go to a bar, or a wedding, or hell, a bar mitzvah, and you introduce yourself as Drunk, everyone wants to buy you a drink. So, there’s that. That’s a pretty decent perk. When I hang out with buddies, I rarely get asked to be the designated driver. Even though my initials are DD. I mean who wants a Drunk driving them?
But best of all?
The chicks.
They dig it.
Here’s the deal with that, though. I can get all the pieces of ass that I want. I can get the hot ones. The skanky ones. The downright virginal ones. What I’m having problems with is finding the till-death-do-you-part ones.
Most women would consider me attractive. Does that make me cocky to say that? Fine. Call me cocky. A cocky Drunk. I’ll take that. Mostly because there’s some truth to it. I can’t help it. When I look in the mirror, a sexy-as-hell man looks back at me. Now, I’m completely aware of the fact that I didn’t do anything to earn these good looks. I was born with good genes. I got my mother’s thick dark brown hair and bone structure. Pops gave me his height and these massive paws that can grip a bowling ball like no other, and his pops gave me his Grecian nose.
I get lots of people telling me about the significance of my nose. Yeah, it’s a little oversized. But that seems to attract the women. If I had a dollar for every time some random chick in a bar asked me, “Big nose, big hose?” I’d be a very rich man. Sorry, was that offensive to someone out there? We might as well part ways now, then, because I not only have a big nose, but I tend to have a big mouth as well, and this is only the beginning of my story. Things are sure to get worse.
So what was I saying? Oh yeah. Most women think I’m attractive, and I agree with them. They look at me, hear my name is Drunk and then promptly think I’m perfect for that one-night stand their girlfriend said would cure them of their broken heart. Or they want me to be an outlet for their overworked, overstressed little bodies. I mean, orgasms cure everything, right? Eh. I might be a little jaded right now, so I’m not gonna be the one to answer that question, because I’d probably tell you that meaningless sex is overrated, and you’d call bullshit faster than I could get down on one knee.
Here’s the thing about getting down on one knee, though. You can’t do it when the only women you meet are out for only one thing. Back in my twenties, meeting women who were out for only one thing was awesome. Maybe awesome is an understatement. It was downright majestic. Ma-fucking-jestic, okay?
But I’m thirty-five. No one wants to be thirty-five and a man whore. Nah, that’s not me anymore. About three years ago I decided to do my mother a favor and knock that shit off. I tried to lay off the sauce for her too. I cleaned up my one-bedroom apartment and went down to the Furniture Mart out on the interstate and bought me a living room set and a new mattress with a frame.
Yeah, figure that. I sleep eight inches off the floor now and I’m a fucking adult or something. But, that new Sealy Posturepedic did something even twelve years of Catholic school couldn’t do. It inspired me to save myself for marriage from that point forward.
Yeah, see, you’re starting to pull out that bullshit card, aren’t you? I knew it. Come on. Have a little faith, will ya? No. I’m not kidding. I am a born-again virgin. Get out the black lights, check my mattress if you don’t believe me.
Oh wait.
On second thought…you probably better not. I’m claiming born-again virgin status, not saint status.
Anyway, a little over a year into my vow of chastity, I met Pamela. I’d let my mother con me into going to church with her one Sunday, even though I’d warned her that Father O’Hare would likely cast me out what with all of my wicked sins and everything. But she’d decided to slap a suit on me, polish me up real nice, and we’d chance it. Her and I had gone and left Pops home alone to watch the Chiefs kick the crap out of the Patriots again. It was an epic 2014 game, which Pops was keen on rewatching over and over again. By now I was pretty confident he knew every play by heart. Anyway, after church my mother and I stood out on the church steps with all of her book club gals. She’d introduced me proudly to all of her friends as her “single boy, Terrence.”
Yeah.
Her single boy, Terrence.
I’d wanted to slip into a black hole. How had thirty-three years of life been reduced to my mother referring to me as her single boy, Terrence?
Fuck!
It took about five shakes for someone’s sister’s cousin’s niece’s friend to make a beeline back inside the church, and they’d come back outside with Pamela.
Oh sweet Jesus, Pamela. She was blonde. Stacked. And oh my God, that ass. Like twelve on a dime scale. That woman looked at me like I was a god, too. I was used to that. And let’s be real. Between my Grecian nose and the suit I was wearing, I looked like a god.
I couldn’t believe my luck. Who knew all the good girls were hiding in church? Had I known that, I probably would’ve started going to church with Mom when I’d turned thirty.
“Pamela, this is Terrence. Terrence, Pamela,” introduced one of the women my mother vaguely referred to as a “friend” of hers.
The old me would have corrected the woman and told Pamela just to call me Drunk. But the new, looking-for-a-wife me said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pamela,” with my best George Clooney swagger.
She’d taken the hand I’d offered, and I kid you not, sparks flew.
My mother had actually been the one to suggest I take Pamela to coffee after church and she’d catch a ride home with her friend. That had been the day I’d met my future fiancée. The woman was sweet, smart, and did I mention stacked? Those first few weeks of our relationship, that woman had me hotter than a Carolina Reaper, complete with tears and all.
Of course, I’d been open with Pam right from the beginning in telling her about my vow of chastity and how I’d wanted to find a woman I could settle down with before giving myself away again. She’d told me she understood and valued my principles. But if anything, that had made her want me more. You want to talk about blue balls? I left her house so fucking hard, so many times, her next-door neighbor probably thought I owned stock in Viagra.
Now, just so we’re clear. Holding out until marriage with a woman like Pamela had been the hardest thing I’d ever done in my entire life. It was even harder than giving up alcohol, and that had been downright painful.
Now, a man can only last so long under those circumstances, so I did what any red-blooded, born-again-virgin man would do and I got down on one knee. Holy shit, you’d think I’d scored tickets for my mother to see Oprah or something, the way she screamed when I told her I was getting married. It was as if I had done something right for the first time in my entire worthless life. Just by getting down on one goddamned knee.
Of course, Pops didn’t care. He only wanted to know how much a wedding was going to set him back. I told him I had it covered. My job at the station earned me a decent enough salary. I’d never had a serious girlfriend, I rarely had to pay for my drinks, and I lived in a one-bedroom apartment over a bowling alley, so I had a hefty savings account. That was enough to warrant a toast out of him.
“To Junior and the new Mrs. Junior,” he’d said, holding up his can of Budweiser, but not bothering to get out of his Barcalounger.
As for Pamela, she didn’t seem to care that her new last name was going to be Drunk. Mrs. Pamela Drunk. I should have known then that shit wouldn’t last. What woman wanted to be known as Mrs. Drunk? Pops always claimed he’d had to pay off my mother’s father to convince him to let his daughter marry a Drunk. Mom said Pops was full of shit, and Granddad died before I could ask him, so who knows which family member was the most full of shit.
Now, if it had been up to me, Pam and I would’ve gotten married as soon as we could hook up with a JP. But it wasn’t up to me. It was up to the women in my life. And the women in my life wanted an old-fashioned Catholic wedding with all the bells and whistles.
Apparently bells and whistles meant forcing ten of my best friends to wear penguin suits and hiring an orchestra and a DJ.
Fuck.
Do you have any idea how long it takes to set that kind of shindig up? Twelve fucking months. That’s how long. I was beginning to think my balls were gonna fall off. I literally went home one night after a particularly long and agonizing make-out session, went to piss and threw up on my penis. True story.
Yeah, so here’s the interesting thing. As much as I was having problems keeping my system in check, apparently, so was Pam. The night before the wedding, I was instructed to make myself scarce. She swore up and down it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding. I suppose I should have told her it was also bad luck for the bride to sleep with her ex-boyfriend the night before the wedding, but I just didn’t think I needed to say that to my loving bride-to-be.
FUCK.
A belt saved me from the worst mistake I’d ever made. Yeah, a fucking belt. I forgot it at the apartment, and when I went to go grab it the night before the wedding, I saw things that would make James Deen blush.
Yeah, so there I was, holding a belt with my fiancée and her sleazeball ex naked in my apartment, screwing on my virginal Sealy Posturepedic, imprinting her goddamned footprints onto the headboard.
Dammit, that hurt.
In retrospect, I should have put that belt to good use. I should have whipped one or both of their asses with it, or I should have used it to hang myself back at the hotel, where my bags were packed and ready for the honeymoon to Paradise Isle, which at this point was a complete and total waste of money.
Instead, I’d done neither. I’d blown the two folded-up hundies I was going to use to tip the priest and equipped myself and all ten groomsmen with a few bottles of semidecent bourbon, and we’d gotten plastered in my hotel room. I woke up two days later with the hardest fucking erection, the most massive hangover, a packed suitcase, and two tickets to paradise. So I did what any spurned-not-in-his-right-mind man would do: I took a cold shower, stuck a piece of Doublemint in my mouth, and headed to the airport.
So here I sit. On a cold-as-hell Monday morning, February nineteenth, two thousand and fucking eighteen, still partially drunk, on a plane, and on the way to what was supposed to have been my honeymoon. I didn’t even take a minute to text anyone to tell them where I was going. I just bounced. Maybe when I get to the five-star resort Pam booked us with my money, I’ll let someone know where I am. Until then, bring on the in-service flight drinks.
2
Okay, so I lied. It probably won’t be the first time, so try not to get too riled up. Instead of boozing away the flight, the minute the plane took off, I fell asleep and I didn’t wake up until the woman sitting next to me tapped me on the shoulder, told me we’d touched down in Atlanta, and asked me if I wanted my Doublemint back.
After deboarding the plane, I made a beeline for the terminal bathroom and then spent the rest of my layover stuck inside a stall with the worst case of whiskey shits I’d ever had. Apparently, my three years of sobriety had taught my innards to become accustomed to what normal life was like, and now they revolted against my weekend of binge drinking with the most rancid-smelling liquid black sludge I’d ever been a party to. I heard several sets of men’s shoes clicking in on the freshly mopped, shiny bathroom floor while I sat silentl
y wishing I’d used that belt the day before and ended my agony. Of course, the clicks had gotten no further than the sinks before I heard them get progressively quieter as the owners of said shoes walked back in the direction they’d just come. I don’t blame them, I thought as I wallowed in the stench that hung in the air around me like a thick malodorous fog. I was making myself sick by inhaling my own putrid odor.
After mopping myself up the best I could with the eight remaining squares of one-ply paper in my stall, I stood up and immediately felt fifteen pounds lighter. The empty stomach combined with the slight tremor in my hands gave me an overwhelming urge to find something to eat.
Preferably a burger.
With bacon.
Why I always craved bacon after a boozefest, I’d never really understood. But it was as much a Drunk family tradition to eat bacon after a night of drinking as it was to eat smoked weenies bathed in barbecue sauce while watching football at my folks’ house on Thanksgiving Day.
Drunk on a Plane Page 1
