Whisky Galah - a WHISKY story for Fairy Tale Friday, 30th January 2015

Ethan Hutchens sat swilling whisky in his ornate armchair, as he had been doing most of the day. He had reached a stage of inebriation foreign, and indeed fatal, to most men. But Ethan remained characteristically unfazed. As he took another sip, however, he felt a strange swirling sensation (well, stranger than the one he'd been experiencing for the last few hours) and a bright light blazed all around. Then, from the living room aurora emerged a small, parrot-like creature with a red breast, that fluttered down onto Hutchens' futon.
"Greetings Ethan," said the bird, "I am the Whisky Galah. Your advanced state of drunkenness has summoned me from the Underwhelm, to grant you three whiskies."
Ethan, unsurprised by the talking cockatoo but suitably excited by its offer, gawped in amazement.
"Blimey," he said, "That's a hell of a thing."
"Indeed," said the Galah, puffing his chest out proudly, "but it's all in a day's work you know. We in the Underwhelm have been arbitrarily rewarding the dangerously paralytic for millennia. So, are you ready to make your selections?"
"Very well," said Ethan excitedly, "for my first wish-"
"No no no," interrupted the Galah, "Not "wishes", whiskies. I'm here to grant you three whiskies."
"Oh," said Hutchens, glancing down at his already impressive whisky collection, "I'm sort of OK for..." He trailed off at a stern look from the Galah.
"It's whisky or nothing," said the bird firmly, "what will your first whisky be?"
"You mean what type?" Another stern look.
"That's not for either of us to decide," said the Galah shortly.
"You mean, what type of drinking vessel, perhaps?"
"Tumblers are standard," said the Galah, becoming impatient, "I'll ask again, what will your first whisky, BE?"
"Erm ... whisky?" said Ethan.
"That's more like it!" said the Galah, and from his tertial feathers produced a tumbler of whisky, identical to the one Ethan had just been drinking, but fuller.
Ethan eyed it carefully. Someone had certainly gone to great lengths. Even the tessellating pattern on the glass was identical to his own.
"What will your second whisky be?" said the Galah.
"Er ... whisky." repeated Ethan.
"Now you're getting it," said the Galah brightly, producing another, yet more identical, tumbler.
"And your last whisky?"
With a grim air of resignation, Hutchens responded, and got a third glass of whisky.
"Well, that's me done," said the Galah, "enjoy your free beverages."
And he turned to go, the golden light swirling once more.
"Wait!" said Ethan. The Galah looked round, mid-flap.
"Why not provide me with ... I don't know ... a bit more choice?" he said, trying not to sound ungrateful.
"Choice creates paralysis" said the Galah simply. And with that he vanished, leaving Ethan alone.
Ethan scoffed at the cockatoo's platitude, and looked down at his alcoholic tokens. Then he realised, with a pang of irony, that he couldn't decide which to drink first.

Fucking Galah.

THE END

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