Chile Peru (An Alcoholic Ghost Story)

Chilli pepper with glass of alcoholic drink


“I’m Chile Peru,” said the woman keenly.

“That’s an interesting name,” replied the man, he didn’t want to take his eyes off his full whiskey glass; buried snug in the folds of his palm.

“It’s a great name!”  she replied, and as she did, all her facial features seemed to slide magnetically to the centre of her crimsoning face; she leaned into his right shoulder, breathing her distinct breath into his ear.

“Thanks, but I’m not here to have a conversation, and I don’t recall asking you… for your name that is.” He stared ahead blankly, continuing to drench the inside of his mouth with alcohol, unsubmissive to his breached personal space.

“Thanks and all that, and yes… you didn’t ask! But considering I already know yours – I just wanted you to hear my name,” she whispered, “my name will probably kill you.” she trailed off her speech as if talking to a good, little, attentive child.

“Ok, Chile, so…this is the scene where I’m supposed to think you’re clearly insane, maybe… consider walking out, without finishing my drink?”

“No silly, this is the scene after that…You’ve already thought about leaving; that happened as soon as I introduced myself. You’re not unnerved, you’re furious because I’ve ruined your usual evening… alone, at the bar. You’ll remain in your fury no doubt, until you enter your drab little studio flat; there you’ll remember only one thing, my name… ‘Chile Peru’, there you’ll rot, your mind will be in freefall; likely to die – very soon, after you slam your front door shut!”

“Wow, Chile… I gotta say that’s a cheerful little story you have there…You really know how to sound like a psychopath – well done to you, you have succeeded! And all this insanity directed at me, a complete stranger, I’m blushing.”

Then, he glanced at her for the first and only time while sliding off his bar stool as gracefully as a soft rubber mould of himself. Leaving his whiskey sour at the bar (just as she predicted), he walked uneasily to the door; the handle of which seemed to duplicate itself on reach, it turn stubbornly when he grasped it; twisting it anti-clockwise, before obliging him with actually opening the door, and the sharp chill of an autumn nights air.

He stumbled in his haze passed the widescreen window; like hundreds of thousands of replicas did, day in day out. He did not look inside, but if he had, he’d had noticed that Chile Peru hadn’t moved; her posture was as stiff as if she were sucking on the last remnants’ of his soul that remained at the bar.

Before her final swig of his drink, she whispered bitterly, “Have a lovely evening, Vinnie.” and then proceeded to neck the remainder of his drink, at which point the chairs were being stacked purposefully on the tables; and by the only person that had overheard their conversation.



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