Grim's Fairy Tale

MARTIN lay on the bed, sodden with whiskey and dripping with sweat. He squirmed, moving uneasily in his alcoholized sleep. Dreaming. Dreaming that he had died and was wandering in the labyrinths of Hell, stumbling and tottering, his mouth parched to a crisp cinder and his tongue feeling like a dehydrated banana. He was shaking convulsively with the withdrawal symptoms of his last mis-match with King Alcohol. Turning a corner, he almost collided with one of Satan's minions, an inky little imp with smoky red eyes. The imp looked at Martin with a cynical awareness mixed with amused contempt.