Blame it on Jack

prompt: Make a lie so believable


In the dank, sour smelling, graffiti covered men's room he took a long look at the dark circles under his eyes, and knew this time it had to be good.

  He sauntered back out into the dimly lit bar where the music was blaring too loudly and air reeked of desperation and loneliness.
   Casting about he surveyed his choices.  Tiffany - a regular- with her bleached blonde hair and bubble gum pink lipstick caught his eye and gave him a wink before hopping off her bar stool and into the arms of a burly man covered in tattoos.  He watched them slow dance to several God awful country songs. She turned in his arms pushing her tight posterior into him, grinding away, though the song didn't call for any such dance move.  The t-shirt she had poured herself into was sized for a toddler and barely made it to her midriff.  The words PUSSY ROCKS emblazoned the front of her well endowed chest and the man she was dancing with seemed inclined to agree.
Andrew had found his mark.
To his right, a kid who used to do the paper route on his street was nursing a beer with his eyes glued to Tiffany's every movement.  There were a few other patrons looking desolately into their drinks but no one who would remember him. This place was far enough from home for him to be anonymous.
Sliding his wallet out of his expensive Armani suit pants, Andrew pulled out a twenty and nudged the kid.  Sliding the bill over he had to almost shout to be heard. He needed an alibi and this kid was going to be it.  After a minute of shouting over the music the kid just shook his head and started to laugh.
 " No way Pops. 2 bills and I might consider it, but not for less."
Did that insolent little prick just call him pops?
  " A hundred, and I won't tell Arty you're only 18."  Andrew countered nodding to the bartender who was busy playing a game on his phone.
   The kid still wasn't biting.  "And I'll put in a good word for you with Tiffany."
That sealed it.
Taking a deep breath Andrew made his way over to the dance floor.
" Hey Tiff, can I have the next dance?"
" Oh hey sugar. I'm a little busy."
Carefully eyeing the menacing skull tattoo covering the big muscular forearm draped around Tiffany's waist, he knew he was in for a world of hurt.
Giving Tiffany his best smouldering look he said loud enough for both of them to hear.
"What you do want with a loser like him, when you could be with a quality man like me. I know how to treat a lady. Drop this guy and let me buy you a drink."
The last thing he remembered was smelling the man's boozy breath before he was out cold.

An hour later, he was home surveying a swollen, red, already purpling shiner in the bathroom mirror and he actually felt sorry for himself.
He could hear his wife's voice in the bedroom chirping into the phone about calling the police and recounting his false story about a mugging.

He knew it had to be good, and this time he'd really out done himself.  He'd done them both a favour he reasoned as his wife was momentarily distracted from her grief, and he had escaped the purgatory of enduring the funeral and eulogizing of the mother-in-law he'd hated for the better part of the last 25 years.
It had been a pretty good bender this time around.  He'd become pretty good at hiding it, and left the worst of his binges to late nights at the law firm when most had gone home, and he could make the excuse of having to work over time on a case. He often would just sleep it off on the couch in his office and kept a fresh suit hung on the back of his door for just such occasions.
This time though, he'd lost an entire day, and woke in the back seat of his car with his mouth feeling like an old cotton rag, complimented by an excruciating headache, and no recollection of where he'd been or how he got there.

He thought a mugging was pretty decent cover,  had the bruises to prove it, and a witness to back him up if necessary.
He told his wife he was too embarrassed to go to the police because he should have known better than to try to fight the guy for a measly hundred bucks and then have his butt handed to him.  He should have gone to the hospital but passed out in the car and missed the funeral. Probably just a minor concussion he told her, and his eyes had even managed to well up with tears. He was so sorry he missed the funeral.
She fussed over him and all had been forgiven.
He looked at himself in the mirror, running a hand over the stubble covering his jaw and then smiled. He was a sly devil, and he had gotten away with it.  He remembered that the empty bottle of Jack Daniels was still rolling around somewhere in the car, and made a mental note to get rid of it later. That bottle. That damn bottle was the devil. This was not his fault at all. He did feel sorry for himself.
He heard the jangle of his belt buckle and knew the wife was probably setting his pants aside for the dry cleaners.
 Panic tore through him as he realized that his wallet was still in his pants pocket.
He'd really outdone himself this time.