Prompt 3 (Drink Yourself Silly): Pop up shops are a dime a dozen in Destiny City this time of year, and for as much weirdness as they cause, there’s still something alluring about them. Walking through the city, you happen to come across one that seems particularly cozy and is decorated in such a way that you just know they’re trustworthy. The menu only has a few items but there’s something for everyone.

Maybe it’s hot chocolate, maybe it’s coffee, maybe it’s some chilly winter sweet--whatever it is, it’s delicious. And magic, but you didn’t know that when you ordered it. It started with an itch at the back of your throat, but what happened after that was anyone’s game. Some of the drinks turn into a tickle in your nose, and now you’re suddenly sneezing snowflakes for the next hour. Maybe you finish your drink and you suddenly feel warm--like you’re in the middle of summer. (Do you even need your coat? It’s so hot! --Or is that a fever?) Or, the itch turns into something else--and suddenly you feel the urge to sing. It’s compulsive, you can’t help yourself, you must sing. It’s like you’ve forgotten how to communicate in any other way. It fades an hour after you finish the drink, but still…


After an evening of busking old English Christmas carols and folk songs for the good holiday-loving people of Destiny City, Rob collected his earnings, packed up his guitar, and headed off to do some holiday things of his own. He gave a dry cough as he walked and cleared his throat; singing in the cold night air wasn't something he was used to, and it seemed to have irritated his lungs and esophagus. What he needed was a nice, warm beverage. Something to soothe his throat and warm him up inside. Something like… a hot toddy. Yeah, that would do the trick, a hot toddy.

Walking down one of the streets in the University District, he eyed some of the pop-up shops that had sprung up seemingly overnight to see if there was anything worth further exploration. There were little stands selling hot cocoa and coffee and even tea, and for a moment he considered a nice hot cuppa with honey and lemon in it. Nah, he had his heart set on a hot toddy. Just those few additional ingredients in a toddy as opposed to hot tea made all the difference. Like the whiskey.

Eventually he came across a pop-up calling itself "Warm Drinks For Fancy Folk". It was literally a pop-up shade and a small makeshift bar, but there was seating, and after standing in the cold for hours he wanted someplace to put his backside and give his feet and legs a rest. Eyeing the posted menu on the outside of the shop, he grinned – they had a limited menu, as did most of these places, but they sold hot toddies! He walked up to the bar, still grinning. "Hot toddy, please," he ordered, and watched the staff mix the drink, complete with lemon slice and cinnamon stick. Accepting the drink, he dragged himself and his guitar case to one of the small, wobbly tables, and with a contented groan sat down and took a sip.

It was amazing. Likely the best hot toddy he'd ever tasted, just the right blend of spices and honey and lemon and whiskey. Rob couldn't just sip this drink, he had to slam it, and within two minutes he had finished it. Not only had it tasted fantastic, it had soothed his poor throat… all except for one little tickling itch way in the back. He chuckled, then he laughed softly, thinking that all the years of singing punk music and it took singing carols on a cold night to irritate his throat like this. Looking down at the empty glass, he continued to laugh to himself. It was the funniest thing!

…Or was it? Rob's laughter increased in volume as he tried to think what was so damn funny. He couldn't come up with anything, not even his observation of the source of the throat irritation. Yet he couldn't stop laughing. It was getting a little ridiculous, and he reflexively slammed his hand on the table as he chortled with apparent merriment. Except nothing was that hilarious, and this was becoming increasingly unhilarious.

His chortling grew into a howling laughter as he looked around helplessly. No one else seemed to be paying attention to him, thank goodness. This was ridiculous, and not in a good way. "I– I can't — stop," he wheezed as the laughing grew yet again in intensity, making his gut ache and tears start streaming down his face. "'Elp – meeeheeeheeeheee." He couldn't even make himself understood through the laughter. Trying to catch his breath, he began to think of sad things – but that only made him laugh harder. Something was definitely not right here! Had he been slipped something, mixed in the hot toddy?

Within short order Rob had reached the point of laugh-crying, that intense laughter where your diaphragm locks up and you can't make a sound because you're laughing too hard and the tears just run down your face. He was quickly becoming exhausted by it all – and still he couldn't stop. This was getting a little scary. There was no strength left in his body; he couldn't even raise his arms to pound on the table. Collapsing back in the little metal chair, he continued to literally sob with laughter. Was this ever going to stop? He had no idea at this point, despite desperately wanting it to.

This continued for what seemed like an eternity before it finally started slowing down. By this time, though, Rob's lungs and stomach muscles were aching, and it barely registered with him, he was so exhausted. Gradually the howling, intense laughter eased back into a cackle, then a chortle, then a soft little chuckle. The man coughed and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, then wiped his face dry with both hands before looking around again. Still no-one seemed to be paying any attention to him. He sat there for a good fifteen minutes after it fully stopped before he felt his strength returning. "What the absolute ********?" he murmured to himself. He didn't know what had just happened, and he really wasn't sure he wanted to.

He finally felt able to stand, and picking up his guitar case he headed home, shaking his head.

WC: 878