Wine-Made-Molotov

This bastard opens his mouth and says, “There’s no way I picked wrong bottles. I always make sure and double check the invoice before I even leave it in the box.”

“And that’s another thing: stop leaving invoices inside the fucking box when you’re done pulling them. Put them back under the keyboard so people know they need to be checked.”

“You probably checked the wrong boxes. Mine are the ones placed along the wall of the Spanish aisle.”

“Those are the ones I checked. We don’t even have stock boxes there—your boxes are the only ones in the aisle!”

I’m being as blunt as possible. I’m keeping all of my sentences straight to the point. And this guy decides to shake his head in denial at the fact of me checking his orders and telling him they’re wrong. He even walks closer to me and starts pointing out some of the key items on the papers, telling me about how they’re special order stuff that we only keep down in the cellar because they’re extremely limited in quantity. I nudge his shoulder to walk past him, reminding him that I’ve been working here for a few months already, so I know all of this stuff.

I can feel my blood boiling the longer this idiot has to be in my presence. I came down here with the simple task of telling him he pulled a few wrong bottles, and now he’s trying to convince me that I’m the one who incorrectly checked them. I’ve had to check stuff that the store owner pulled, and even he has pulled wrong bottles on a few occasions.

Tyler starts looking at me, his eyes squinting like there’s something on his mind, “You trying to sabotage my orders?”

When he says that, I instantly lose my train of thought ad get stuck on what he just said. His words play on a small loop, fueling my desire to let out a roar at him. I close my eyes and fill my lungs with air to yell, but I end up letting out a slow, calm breath. My eyes just stare at him as my mind starts figuring out how I should let out this pent up anger, each thought involving Tyler either getting his head bashed in, his limbs sawed off, or his entire body being burnt to a crisp.

Unfortunately for him, he has no idea what I’m capable of.

“You know, Tyler,” I begin, “I’ve had it with your obnoxious, arrogant, self-centered fucking attitude. All you ever do is run around this store like you own this place, telling others what to do. You’ve been in this store for two years, working in the wine industry for five, and you’re still making basic fucking mistakes.”

He tries to cut off my ranting but I instinctively grab the closest thing to me, which is a bottle from the wall rack, and crack it across his face. The entire bottle shatters and shards get logged in his face, the wine and his blood dripping down. Before he can scream for too long I take my papers and shove them in his mouth to act like a gag and kick him down to the ground, the back of his head hitting more racked wine bottles.

I slowly walk over to him and stand above him, looking down at the bitch of a man. I notice an oddly shaped bottle on the rack and pull it out. Most of the label is scratched out from age, but there’s a small piece on the back that has an icon of a rising flame.

Looks like I can make my dreams come true.

I crouch down and start digging through Tyler’s pocket for his cigarette lighter. He tries to push me off but I land a couple of heavy-handed punches to his face, the glass burrowing further into his cheeks and eyes. Taking out the red lighter, I take the invoice he has in his apron and walk down to the start of the aisle. Uncorking the bottle I took from the rack, I roll up Tyler’s papers, stick them inside with some paper popping out of the top, and ignite them.

I can feel my cheeks heat up and take on the form of a sinister grin as I lob my makeshift Molotov at the bloodied man on the floor, “Check this bottle for me, asshole.”


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