Page 1 of Love vs The Ooze Monster!
Prologue
Zozzled: (1920s slang) Drunk off your ass
Town of Volstead
Nevermore County
Wednesday August 16th1922
The patrons of O'Shaughnessy’s Speakeasy were zozzled.
It was a weekday night, but the place was hopping. Electric fans loudly churned, circulating the heavy summer air. A band played jazz at full volume. They only half-knew the song, but no one much cared about their lack of talent. Flappers with fringe on their dresses danced the night away with dewdroppers in pinstriped suits. A three day weekend was coming up, so spirits were high.
Spirits were always pretty high in Volstead’s underground club scene.
Back in 1920, the United States had gone dry. All liquor sales and production were prohibited, but the regulations were so full of loopholes that you could drive a Model T through them. In Volstead, the cops mostly looked the other way about enforcing the unpopular law. Clandestine bars, called speakeasies, operated everywhere. Their primary customers were eager, free-spirited kids, coming off a world war and hungry for change.
Society was exploding, much to the dismay of the older generation. Women wore short dresses and shorter hair. Men in fedoras were getting rich by breaking the law. Old customs were tossed aside, crime was skyrocketing, and technology was making everything gofast.
It was an incredible time to be young and alive.
It was also an incredible time to own a bar.
Patrick O'Shaughnessy’s speakeasy made him a pretty penny on liquor sales, which he swiftly doubled with his corner cutting. He charged top dollar for watered-down liquor. He had heavy locks on the doors, so no one could slip out without covering their tab. He hired the cheapest bands in town, regardless of their musical abilities. All his peanuts and pretzels were stale. He bought questionable hooch from every newcomer offering him a deal. The bar had no windows to distract customers from their drinking. He hired pretty girls to flirt with boozehounds and get them to buy extra rounds. Chiseling dough out of every sucker he met was Patrick’s true passion and one creative outlet.
Thanks to his thriftiness, he’d bought himself a shiny new Dodge Roadster and a solid gold pocket watch. For the son of immigrants, that wasn’t too shabby. Owning a speakeasy had made his dreams of prosperity come true.
On the downside, though, Patrick had to deal with a lot of drunken assholes.
“My good man!” A drunk asshole leaned over the bar, raising his voice to be heard over the band. He was dressed like a swell, in a top hat and tails. “This isn’t gin.” He tipsily lifted his drink, sloshing some of the slightly orange-ish liquid over the rim. “I don’t knowwhatthis is, asfactually.” He squinted slightly, knowing he’d said that wrong. “As a matter of factually. As a matter of…”
Patrick cut him off. “I told ya, it’s moonshine.”
“Well, it’s got a very strange taste. And the smell…!” He waved a disgusted hand in front of his nose for emphasis.
“The stench ain’t stopping’ you from drinking it, though.” Patrick pointed out crossly. “That’s your fourth one.”
He was sick of dealing with complaints about the damn moonshine. It was a new brand and he was going to raise some hell with the jackass who made it. The customers hated the stuff.
It wasn’t like the speakeasy crowd was only after top shelf brands, either. They all knew they were drinking coffin varnish, which was the street name for the very cheapest and most questionable alcohol. Stills and bathtubs were currently brewing up new batches, in homes all over Volstead.
Typically, none of these scofflaws cared about the type of liquor they got served. They just wanted to get drunk and have fun. Folks held their nose and drank whatever you handed them. When O'Shaughnessy’s open-minded clientele started complaining about the quality of the beverages, you knew there was a problem.
But Patrick wasn’t giving out refunds. Hell no.
“I have hadfivedrinks.” The drunken asshole corrected with carefully articulated precision. “But each and every one is worse than the last.”
Patrick rolled his eyes.
“And why is it orange?” The man whined on. “Gin shouldn’t be orange.”
“I told ya, it’smoonshine.”
“Well, moonshine’s not supposed to be orange, either.” There was a triumphant note to his slurred voice as he delivered that pointed retort. “There is a quality control issue…” He stopped short, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth.
“If you’re going to upchuck, take it outside, fella.”
The drunken asshole didn’t seem ready to puke, though. Not exactly. His face wasn’t going green. It was turningorange. Vivid, eerie, weirdly transparent orange. And his head was getting bigger, as if all the orange was filling it up, somehow. Swelling his skin to the point that his bloodshot eyes began to bug out and the top hat fell off his ever-rounding head.
