I swear—I swear—I only left the room for five minutes.
Five. Minutes. Five.
Long enough to answer a message, refill my cola, and contemplate for the thousandth time why I thought becoming a Gremlin Wrangler was a sensible life choice. As if I really chose this. The gremlins happened and I responded to the crisis/hostage situation that ensued.
When I returned, I was greeted with the sight you see before you: one extremely pleased gremlin sitting at my table, clutching a bottle of absinthe like he just inherited a vineyard in the Provence.
Let me be absolutely clear about something.
The Absinthe is NOT mine.
I don’t even particularly like absinthe. I’ve never bought Absinthe... well, outside of a questionable series of regrettable decisions during a bar crawl when I was at University and still have no recollection of.
There is no reason whatsoever that there should be a bottle of absinthe in this house. And yet here we are, with this scaly little menace raising a glass as if we’re celebrating Bastille Day together.
We are not.
Where did he get it? No idea. But I do have several theories.
He stole it from somewhere. Even if the other two apply, this does too. Nobody offered permission for this.
He found it in some cursed pocket of reality that only gremlins seem able to access. That would explain a lot, honestly.
He manifested it through pure spitefulness and bad intent. And because nothing is a half measure in this house, Absinthe is the result.
All three are equally plausible.
What is not plausible—yet somehow still happening—is the fact that he’s prepared it properly. There’s a glass. There’s the absurd little sugar cube situation. The whole ritual. I didn’t teach him this. Nobody taught him this. I can only assume gremlins come pre-loaded with chaotic beverage knowledge like some anarchistic little bartender convention. Again, that would honestly explain a lot.
And now he’s sitting there, grinning at me, raising the glass like we’re about to toast.
“Cheers!” he says.
Me: No.
Absolutely not.
You do not get to say cheers. You are not old enough to drink, you are not licensed to handle glassware, and frankly you are barely licensed to exist in this house unsupervised--
“...Sláinte?” he says, quizzically. The head tilt is not cute when its gremlin/absinthe scented.
Me, at full exasperation point now: --Also—and I cannot stress this enough—you are a gremlin. Pronouncing it correctly in Irish does not change things. Good job by the way. I'm still mad.
Sir. Sit down.
Then realization dawns.
Wait... Him being able to say AND PRONOUNCE Sláinte... means one of two things:
1. He’s been listening carefully.
2. Wherever he has been listening... he’s been drinking already.
Do you know what absinthe does to humans? Because I promise you it is not going to improve matters when applied to a creature whose decision-making already includes:
chewing electrical cables, batteries and anything else that makes a spark when you lick it.
hiding my house keys in the freezer. And the shed. And in whichever current location I have not yet discovered them stashed in.
attempting to unionize the houseplants while TP'ing the stair case. Cos, classy.
and whatever unspeakable negotiation he had to perform to obtain this bottle in the first place
So here we are.
He’s holding up his little glass of glowing green chaos. The bottle is on my table. Probably melting its way through the lacquer.
And he’s staring at me with the smug confidence of a creature who knows two things:
I have no idea where the absinthe came from. Or to whom I owe several apologies and a replacement bottle.
I have absolutely no way of proving he shouldn’t have it, and I'm certain I'll never catch him if he runs.
I am tired.
I am confused.
And I am now apparently confiscating alcohol from a gremlin.
Again.
If anyone knows where gremlins get absinthe, please let me know.
He is already three YouTube tutorials away from a flaming absinthe fountain with a dill pickle buffet.
May the odds be ever in our favour.
And yes. Gremlins absolutely think that is a good idea. He's currently wearing a tiny bartender’s vest… and... he fashioned it himself out of a .... napkin? Where did you get those BUTTONS?
I'm off to try to wrestle this bottle of nightmare fuel from him and watch for the following symptoms:
- dramatic poetry
- attempts to duel furniture
- declaring himself “Count of the Kitchen.”
Why is it glowing? What is happening?