Thursday Was Dark and Ominous...

And he walked through the hallways of his personal fortress, built from the toilings of thousands of wage-slaves, (which, to a weekday, ment nothing.)
"Whisky!" He demanded, even though his left hand was clutching a huge ceramic jug that had three X's stenciled upon it in yellow. Puny mortals scattered this way and that, to either fetch him the dark liquor, or to avoid his dark and ominous mood. One tripped, and fell flat to the floor. Thursday trampled him with a spiked-boot that would have made the official KISS cobbler proud.

Thursday drank from the jug until it was empty, then threw it against the wall where it shattered. He turned the corner, and a small man dressed in a white apron, stood by the awning of a small wheeled cart. As Thursday passed, the small man said,
"Would you like to try some falafel?"
Thursday took the back of his hand and sent the falafel salesman flying back into his cart, which promptly overturned. Falafel and various cans of soda spilled out onto the floor.
"I don't have time to eat!" Bellowed Thursday, "I need whisky!"
Of course, none appeared, which made Thursday even more dark and ominous. (Lets' face it, at a certain point dark and ominous crosses a line, and becomes downright threatening - which is the line we crossed a few paragraphs ago.) Thursday continued stomping down the hall. Behind him, hundreds of mortals, like rats, swarmed the falafel cart, and began hungrily stuffing their mouths, and popping open soda cans that fizzed and spilled over everything. The small falafel salesman tried in vain to stop his merchandise from being looted. Sad really.

Thursday flung open the doors to his fortress courtyard, where a few Thursday-Shock-Troops were practicing a vicious assault on a small hut. Sub-machine gun bullets ripped through the bodies of five target dummies inside. (at least, it seemed like they were target dummies) Then various grenades, flame-throwers, rockets, and missiles were launched obliterating the hut. There were hi-fives all around. Thursday dropped a mighty hand (covered in a fingerless, studded leather gauntlet - the kind of thing Judas Priest would adorn their hands with) on a Shock-troop's shoulder.

He looked up, the smile on his face slunk away like a kicked dog.
"Whisky." Thursday grumbled...and a pissed off Thursday grumbling is like the sound a volcano makes right before it's about to flatten a good chunk of a city.
"Try over at the trading post." The Trooper was able to say. "There's usually someone there that's got some stuff."

Thursday walked off, dark and ominous. A truck drove in his path, and he picked it up in one hand, without stopping, and threw it against a massive stone wall where it exploded. A fireball raced to the sky, and the driver spilled out of the cab, a charred cinder. Thursday came to the trading post, where various merchants and barterers were packing up their things and hoping to run away before any wrath could fall upon them.
"Whisky!" He yelled.
Merchants fled, some clutching bags or cases, but most willing to leave their wares to save their lives. Thursday watched the panic with some satisfaction, but mostly disgust - why was there no whisky to be had??!!

A man dressed in a seedy overcoat spoke up from the shadows.
"I gotcher whisky." He muttered.
Thursday eyed the fellow, from on high. He didn't look like he had anything but disheveled clothes.
"How much?" Thursday grumbled.
"As much as you need." The fellow said, his eyes a shadow from the brim of a shabby hat.
"Show me!"
"It'll be ten-thousand dollars."
"What!?" Yelled Thursday. His voice was like thunder, and it echoed off mountains miles away. Small woodland creatures scampered for their burrows.
"I said, ten thousand dollars,"
"Where are your trucks? Where are your wagons? Where are your porters? Ten thousand dollars buys a lot of whisky."
"Don't need 'em. Gots it right here." And with that the man reached into his shabby overcoat, and pulled out a mid-sized pewter hip flask. He shook it enticingly. Thursday laughed. "Ten thousand dollars for THAT!?! HAH!"
"Dude," The man said to Thursday, "It's weapons-grade whisky. You don't need much."
Thursday walked away. He looked about his fortress, which he now knew to be dry as a bone. He took a few more steps, but he knew, just as the man in the seedy coat knew, he'd have to buy it.

He turned and walked back. He fished out his wallet, and produced ten, thousand dollar bills. The man handed over the flask.
"Now, like I said, " the man spoke, "you'll only need..."
Thursday drank the whole thing. Peculiar sensations hit his mouth, throat and stomach.
"a mouthful or two." The man finished, and calmly looked up at Thursday. The big weekday looked about him, his eyes focused on something far off, then glazed over. His left knee bucked and he fell, flattening a post office, and part of a doughnut shop. Giant snores began to fill the air. The man in the seedy overcoat and shabby hat counted his money as he walked out of the fortress. As he did he mumbled under his breath.
"Fucking amateurs..."