Hi! I'll be bringing a story or two back. But otherwise HI welcome to this thing here.

You need a drink.

You're probably an alcoholic, of course you want one. But, it's MORE than that. You need one.

This guy standing behind you, breathing his hot rancid halitosis on your neck really makes that a high priority. You were drunk, to be fair. But his grubby hands on your tight-little-dress covered behind was starting to sober you up quite well. Better than a pot of coffee and one pleasantly cold shower.

As soon as his hips clumsily shifted to press closer to your bum, that was the last straw.

"If you'll excuse me," tone like ice, eyes sharp glinting with a boiling fury. You feel you must look dangerous, and you do. Through the hazy cloud of intoxication, a spark in his eyes screams recognition.

What is it they say - game recognize game?

You strut away. From your gaggle of girlfriends. From the brother drunkard stumbling towards another unwilling woman. And maybe you are drunk (and you so totally are, by the way, get your last drink and close the tab out for the night, love), but it feels like your energy crackles around you. Electricity in the air, an energy that parts the dancing crowd. This bar is tiny though, and you're a frequent.

They know better than to stand in your way.

Flashing lights almost blind you but you make it to the bar and thumping bass vibrates through the chair you decide to perch on. It's leather is cracked and worn, duct tape with mustaches covering any spots where stuffing is starting to expose itself.

"Hey Witt!" Not everyone knows his name, in fact most patrons of the bar just call the man 'waiter' after a fiasco with two drunk bozos... But you make it a point to leave nicknames only for those that enjoy them. Witt despises his. It's etched a permanent scowl into his features. The neon lights behind the bar cast green light onto his skin as he looms before you.

"Yeah?" It's blunt. Not unkind. But blunt.

"Can I get Some Pussy please?" You smile a sugary smile, his expression doesn't change.

"You know I don't make that anymore," You've known Witt a few more years than you'll let on to anyone else. You worked at a strip club for a little while, a few years - a good eight of them or so - back. It closed down. Small town like this killed it fast. But you worked their as a server. Underage and totally paid under the table. Witt took it upon himself to watch your back. You WEREN'T a stripper, you were off limits.

And you would totally drink with the crew whenever you closed. You miss the girls. And the drinks. But Witt had stayed.

"Hmmm," you sway on the stool. Not because you're drunk. You're doing it and whining, giving him a look that begs for something off the menu. Remember, you're trying to say, remember when we why'd mix all TYPES of drinks together.

And also, It's your fault I'm an alcoholic.

He sighs, shakes his head and starts to prepare an almost lethal concoction of a drink. If your eyes doth not deceive, it's what you guys had called Fucking Linda. You might just miss that crazy bitch most of all.

"Ring me up sir!" You demand, haughty. But it's playful and he rolls his eyes. You think you catch the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile as he glances up at you, setting your special drink in front of you. But before he can respond, yes of course miss anything else miss such a shame to see you go miss, there's a shout from the other end of the bar,

"WAAAAAIIIITEEEER!" And the smile drops back into a frown. But you smile, and because you're a bitch you also laugh.

"Duty calls," You take your card from him and push a ten into his hand before hopping off your stool and you blow a kiss over your shoulder, glide back across the dance floor amazingly covered in bodies - a good chunk of them frat douches and the frat mattresses they'd be waking up to in the morning - and make it in one piece back to your friends. They hadn't missed you. Light weights had already gotten trashed off the four jello shots they'd each choked down.

"Elsa!" Well, one person missed you. She drapes herself over your shoulder. Even though she's huge and you're comparatively tiny. If you weren't so used to this you might have spilled your drink. You take a long, slow sip.

"Yo."

She giggles into your ear. And if you didn't love her like the little-big sister you never had, maybe you would have felt a certain way about her arms looping around your waist and settling her palms on your cheeks.

"I'm... sofaking drunk." She giggles again and you reach up, running your fingers through her hair. You push her bangs back when she draws back to give you some breathing room and she smiles when you grin,

"ELSA!" You exclaim because you know all your friends hate you for your hair. It's perfect and you know it. Not everyone can be as perfect as you and you understand that. Even if it is a fucking joke.

Kristy laughs harder when her bangs fall back over her forehead and you pout. While she catches her breath you fill your mouth with more drink. It burns. You enjoy it. And then she stops and she's glaring over your shoulder.

"That creep is perving on another girl," at first you have no idea what she's talking about. But when you cast your eyes in the direction of her glare you find it. MrGrabass is trying to feel up a poor unsuspecting college student. You try to summon up the energy to care.

But you do find a smile when the girl's embarrassment of bitches emerges from the woodwork and go to surround her. An impregnable fortress. One girl throws a drink in his face. You decide you'll call her Stacy.

You go Stacy.

"I was hoping for a fight," you admit, hiding your next smile in your drink as you take another sip. Kristy slaps your shoulder. Rough. You still don't spill your drink.

Stacy brought her boyfriend, nice. Perhaps I spoke too soon.

"You're so mean," but she's giggling again. Of course you're mean. Where's the fun in being nice? Glass shatters, you don't hide your smile this time. In fact you laugh outright. Stacy's boyfriend punched Grabass, but with a stein. How delightful. A chorus of gasps ring out behind you. Your own embarrassment of bitches has been alerted to the presence of trouble. You tip the glass back and take a few large gulps.

They'll want to leave now. And next time you want to come here they'll complain. That it smells like cigarettes and there's always a fight that breaks out. And they'll be correct. But you'll all end up here anyway. Still, you have to be ready. They all paid with cash. So they are ready but whispering amongst themselves happens first, then they try to drop hints about leaving. Then they ask to leave.

Like you're they're fucking mother or something.

It's good to be Queen.

You manage to slam the drink back. Set it on a nearby table. Turn to them and they are just starting to whisper.

"Let's bounce, ladies," you tell them and a wave of relief washes over them. They all agree easily. But then a question comes up. As it always does.

"Who's going to drive?"

You roll your eyes, lifting one hand, "I will, duh." And no-one says anything but they all look at each other nervously. "What?"

"Aren't you a little drunk?" Kristy is the one to ask it, brushing her golden bangs out of her eyes so she can frown at you in concern and confusion. Yes. Yes you are. But that doesn't matter. You've driven drunker than this before.

Which is both bad and sad, so you can't really say that.

"Not really," you lie, but shrug and offer, "we can call a cab if that'd make you feel better?" Knowing there's not enough room in just ONE cab for all of you. You'll drive home dammit! But it's absolutely understandable if they aren't comfortable with that. And it's probably a good thing too.

Much less danger to them.

"We won't have room for the all of us..." And maybe Kristy is a bit more aware than you gave her credit for.

"I can take my own," at the look that garners you roll your eyes. "I'm a big girl Kris. Wipe my own ass and everything!" She can't help her smile. You volunteer to call the company and they allow it. Even rushing to get one last round of jello shots knowing they'll be out of here soon and who really gives a fuck right?

Up in the bar turning up on a Thursday. Cuz hell yeah. You only call for one car. And the last shot, they swear, is going to keep them warm for the wait for the cab. But it arrives after only two minutes standing at the curb just outside the front of the bar. And Kris waits a moment to ask where yours is. And one pulls up behind theirs and you nod at it.

Lies are like breathing.

She smiles and kisses your cheek all sloppy and you pat her head and chuckle as she settles into the car. And then the door closes and you keep smiling and waving till they're out of sight. Then you sigh and open your clutch, withdrawing a pack of cigarettes. The bar has a small patio area all the smokers retreat to at one point or another, whenever they aren't trying to sneakily smoke just inside the door that leads from the bar out onto the patio.

You open the iron gate they have and step into this area. Find a place at an empty picnic table and seat yourself. You don't usually smoke. Generally you're a social smoker but Fucking Linda was crazy in a glass and you need to chill out for a bit before you drive. Only problem is that your lighter is dead.

"Son of a-" you shake it, hard, and it sparks and catches for a moment. Then a wind snuffs the tiny flame from existence. "Great." You mumble around the cigarette. And you could scream in frustration. It's been a long day. You could really use the nicotine right now.

"Need a light?" And you want to deny that without looking up, you want to turn your back and ignore this person. But your eyes climb from converse-covered feet up long legs encased in slightly-ripped denim, over a plain black t-shirt with what looked like a clock over the heart. And you stop at the grin. Because it's warm and genuine and inviting. And you're a stranger.

"Thanks," you smile despite the sneer that wants to show itself. Because after all, anyone can play nice for a pretty face. And this face is certainly pretty. Almost as pretty as you. And you smile wider. "You new here?"

That's all the invitation smiley needs to seat herself across from you. She's wearing a leather jacket she swings off her shoulders and offers to you. You cock one brow, not quite eyeing it with disdain. But basically that.

"You're not cold?" She offers in way of an actual answer to your unspoken question. And you aren't. But that damn smile is impossible to ignore. So you giggle - you REALLY must be drunk, hmm? - and reach for it, wrapping it around your shoulders, and that's when she leans forward and lights your cigarette for you.

What a gentlewoman.

"And yeah," Your eyes meet hers and the smile is still just as genuine there. And her eyes are gorgeous. Like wow. "I am new, what gave it away?"

"Would've remembered your face," you blow out a ring or two. Your eyes meet hers again. She's still smiling.

"Is that a good thing?"

"It is," you return the smile. And it's lacking the same warmth hers isn't but you don't let that bother you. "You're pretty."

"You're prettier," You don't try to deny it, because you know it's true. But you smile like this is news to you, and you're charmed by it.

"I don't believe I caught your name," because you are a little enchanted by her. And she might be all the excuse you need to let someone else drive you home.

"I don't believe I gave it," The grin that curls your lips up must be positively radiant. It feels so.

"What a shame. I'll call you Freckles." She throws her head back and laughs and for whatever reason you think it's incredible.

"Not very imaginative," she smirks. "I've heard better."

"Like Soulless?"

"Rawr, kitty's got claws."

"And a name," Another hearty laugh from the mystery woman. You rather enjoy it. "It's Elsa." You bite your lip as her eyes sparkle, and when she grasps your hand to press a warm kiss to your knuckles you swear you must be blushing. But maybe you're just (in fact you ARE) still drunk.

"Enchanted," she breathes and you titter. Oh yes, yes you do. Bet you didn't even know you were capable of it.

"You should be," and there's that magical laughter again.

"I'm Anna," she draws her hand back to press it to her chest. You're oddly reminded of Tarzan. If only it were raining.

"And it is SO wonderful to make your acquaintance, Anna," and you love the way it rolls off your tongue. "So what brings such a pretty face to this... quaint little town?" You'll be the first to admit you hate small talk.

But you feel as though, Would you like to fuck? might be too much too soon. But there's that whole intoxicated thing. Maybe it's a good idea and you just don't know it yet.

"Hmm, well you see, if I told you that, I'd have to kill you," she must hate small talk as well. "But no, it would be too cheesy to say you, but heck, I'll just go ahead - this town was a happy accident, this bar was totally purposeful."

Both brows crawl upwards, and you purse your lips. You're trying not to laugh. But you feel such an odd urge to.

"Oh?"

"I mean," she's rubbing a hand through her hair, which is kinda short and wild, nervously smiling at you. "The first time was an accident, but I saw you here and..."

You should be alarmed. And probably frightened. If, indeed, this conversation is heading in the direction you think it is, this means pretty girl has been stalking you. Which is never a good thing for any reason. But you find yourself totally calm, and amused because Anna looks like a wide eyed child afraid of a scolding.

"Why, miss Anna," you put on your most dramatic southern belle accent. "Am I to be insinuating that this is your way of saying you're attracted to me!?" You throw your head back and gasp, one hand falling over your face. Positively the most distressed damsel.

"No ma'am, not at all," and she spits out a spaghetti western accent that brings back memories of your childhood fawning over old Clint Eastwood films with your mother. Smiling, breaking her character, "I'm attracted to you, lady Elsa. Very much so."

And if you weren't delighted by her before, you are now. Something about the confidence, plus the boldness. You appreciate it.

"Well I'll have you know," and you've already broken character, but that's fine, and you lean forward after casting your eyes around. You pull her closer with a handful of her shirt, but she doesn't mind at all. "That's Queen Elsa to you."

When you push her back, her smile is still shining, but her eyes are dark. It sends a chill racing down your back. In the best way. Breaking the gaze, and biting back a girlish giggle and stupidly large grin, you notice your whole reason for having come out here has all but burned to ash while you've been understandably distracted.

And it's too soon. But another cigarette is SO unnecessary. And another drink should be out of the question, but then you look back up to Anna, and she's watching your face. And you wonder if it's because she's trying to catch your eyes.

"Buy me a drink?" You fucking alcoholic.

"Buy me two," and that does make you giggle and you are really warming up to a near stranger aren't you? Cool your jets, girl.

"Why, but if I were to do that, how could you take me home?" Her eyes widen a fraction, and so do yours. You almost forgot you were drunk, didn't you?

"That is a compelling argument," she allows, nodding slowly. "How bout this, we'll grab some roadies from Witt-" And color you surprised; she knows Witt by name?! "And take this party to my place?"

"Open alcoholic beverages the road? How scandalous!"

"Hardly," she laughs. Then leans closer. "But you wouldn't be interested if I were some doe-eyed good Samaritan, now would you, Your Majesty?" And when her voice dropped a few octaves to utter your official-unofficial title, that sealed the deal. Flicking your cigarette butt away, you plant your elbows on the table and, propping your chin on the bridge of your fingers, offer with a saccharine smile,

"Let's compromise: I've got plenty of sips at home. Could you be a good Samaritan enough to give a gal a ride home and," you chuckle lowly, licking your lips, "give a gal a ride?"

Her smile never changes, never leaves. But her eyes are even darker than before. In this lighting, or lack thereof, they look almost black.

"I think I could do that," she stands, holding a hand out for you. "Just this once."

"Only once?" You ask (not-so-)innocently. Her chuckle is lower than yours had been, you take her hand and allow her to pull you up and close to her.

"For you, perhaps just a few more times," You hum and disengage from her, strutting away. But you don't hear her following and stop to glance over your shoulder st her. Staring at your gorgeous behind. Who wouldn't? You would if you could.

"Coming?" Her eyes meet yours. And she is unashamed.

"Not yet," and she walks over to you, palming your ass. "Give it an hour and ask me then."

Cocky little shit. But you eat it up.

"Will do."

is this T? Why do I like using second person POV? Did anyone catch that SpongeBob reference? Did I really turn Kristoff into a girl? The answers to those questions and more will be revealed next week on the next episode of DON'T DRIVE DRUNK, IT'S FUCKING DANGEROUS!