Word: moosemilk

 

moosemilk

\ MOOS-milk \  , noun;

1. Canadian . homemade or bootleg whiskey.

2. Canadian . a cocktail of whiskey or rum and milk.

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Greg opened his eyes and groaned.  The gentle, early morning sun hit him like flaming daggers, and his head felt like it was being hit repeatedly with a sledgehammer.  He groggily stuck his hand out to the other side of his bed.  He wasn’t sure whether or not to be disappointed by the fact that there was nobody else there with him.  He opted towards grateful. 

                He slowly slid out of bed and threw on the same outfit he had worn last night simply because it was there.  Some vague part of him even recognized that he had, at some point, gotten out of them before going to bed.  He was, again, not sure what to think of that.  He just hoped it was his roommate or himself that had done the clothing removal.

                His roommate, Pete, was already in the kitchen, looking very much like Greg felt.  Greg flopped on one of the other chairs and leaned back, keeping his eyes shut against the piercing kitchen lights.

                “Morning.”  Pete said.  His voice was hoarse and weak.  Greg muttered something that was kind of like a reply and called it good. “So, you remember anything about last night?”

                “Uh…”  Greg said.  He searching his mind for anything.  There was some things he could recall, but most of it had been lost.  “Some stuff.”

                “Great.  Maybe we can figure out whether or not we had fun or something.  Hopefully we didn’t do anything too weird.”

                “Don’t think so.  Let’s see.  Uh, I think we started off ok.  I’m pretty sure you were hitting on a group of girls though.  You might have been trying to hook up with all of them at once.”

                “Oh yeah.”  Pete said groggily.  A slight smile crossed his face as he called up the still fuzzy memory.  That was pretty cool.  Too bad I messed up though.”

                “Yeah, they were pretty hot.  At least, I think they were.”

                “Eh.  Whatever.”

                “Yeah.  Um.  I think things started getting really bad when that big guy showed up.  You remember him?”

                “Not really.”
                “Oh.  I only remember he said he was Canadian or something and brought some really weird stuff with him.  Something about a moose I think.”

                “Weird.  You sure he was Canadian?”

                “No, but what’s it matter if he was?”

                “I don’t know.  I’m just trying to think.”

                “Well stop it.  It’s just gonna hurt right now.”

                “Yeah, right.”

                Both of them fell silent as they each went over the intact memories of the previous night.  Most of Greg’s memories were of the earlier hours of the party, when all he was drinking was beer.  Once that Canadian guy showed up with his moose drink, things started to either run together or disappear completely. 

                “Man, what was in that stuff?”  Pete said suddenly.

                “What stuff?”  Greg replied, wincing at the sudden, unexpected onset of sound.

                “That, what was it?  That, uh, that moose stuff.”

                “No idea.  The guy just said something about moose. I think the word whisky might have come up too, so I’m guessing it was that?”

                “No way.  I’ve had whiskey before.  It did not mess me up like this.”  Pete suddenly fell forward in his chair and nursed his head.  His own voice had aggravated his hangover more than he thought it would when he raised his voice to speak.

                “Hey, that’s all I know.  The moose think is all I remember. The whiskey was probably something different.”  Greg said, trying to make sense of both his own words and jumbled memories.

                “Uh huh.”  Pete suddenly sat up as suddenly as his current condition would allow him to.  “Hey, what if it was actual moose in there.”

                “What?”

                “You know, like, ground up moose meat or something.  Then he does some weird Canadian stuff to it and makes it kick hard or something.”

                “Yeah, I don’t think that’s possible.  Meat doesn’t ferment, even if you liquefy it.  I’m pretty sure it just rots.”

                “Well, who knows what that guy did to it?  Maybe he knows some ancient Canadian secret or something?”

                “Pretty sure there’s no such thing.”

                “All I’m saying is that whatever was in that stuff, it wasn’t normal.”

                “Yup.  No arguing there.” 

                Another prolonged silence filled the small room.  Greg gave up trying to figure out what was in the concoction and his lost memories after drinking it.  He figured some things may be best left forgotten.  All he knew was that he probably wouldn’t be accepting any drinks that had animals in their names from Canadians anymore.    

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Not sure if I got the feeling of a hangover quite right.  I personally don't drink, so I've never had one.  Really, I'm not sure why anyone would drink so much when they know that they'll have to go through with this kind of torture afterwards.  But hey, that's just me.