I was sipping a drink, researching my latest Sam Smith mystery when a man walked into the bar. He looked distressed.
“Quick,” he said to the barman, “I need a glass of water.”
With a quizzical look on his face, the barman poured water into a glass. The man grabbed the glass, gulped the water then ran to the rest room.
Two minutes later, the man returned, still looking distressed. “Nope,” he said, “that didn’t work. I’ll have a Bacardi and lemon.”
The man sipped his Bacardi then chewed on the lemon. With a pained expression on his face, he ran to the rest room only to return two minutes later.
“Nope,” he said, “that didn’t work either. I need a radical solution.”
Then, to gasps from the clientele, the man produced a gun and handed the weapon to the barman. “Shoot me,” the man said.
“You must be crazy,” the barman said. “I’m not touching that gun.”
“You, lady,” the man said to me, “shoot me.”
Of course, by now I’d twigged what was happening so, nonchalantly, I placed the gun in my hand. I raised my arm, pointed the barrel at the man’s head and eased my finger against the trigger. Before I could squeeze the trigger, the man sighed and walked out of the bar.
“Phew,” the barman said. “What was that all about?”
“Didn’t you notice?” I asked, sliding the gun across the bar. “The man had hiccups.” 😀