The Cure

by , under Flash Fiction, Sunday Photo Fiction

Any regular reader of the tabloid press will tell you that it’s not a matter of money. It’s not a matter of success. Last year I was paid three million an episode, plus residuals. I had a loft in Tribeca, a stilt-house on Maui and a recently-acquired chateau in the Basque Pyrenees. I had a stack of scripts on my counter a foot high.

But I could not stop drinking. I went to Betty Ford, to Hazelden, to Sierra Tucson. I’d go away for twenty-eight days, take a cure, come back. Within a week I was back at at, just like I’d never stopped. I tried AA, but all the talk of God turned me off. And day in and day out, my drinking accelerated until I was more or less always drunk. It started to affect my work. My agent called me in. A “come to Jesus” talk, he called it. The writing was on the wall.

“There are a million guys waiting to take your place,” he said. “A million reasons to quit.”

I started to cry. “I know. I just– can’t.”

He slid a business card across his desk. “This guy isn’t cheap, but he offers a 100% guarantee.”

“Money back if I don’t stay sober?”

“No. Stay sober or he kills your family and friends in front of you, one at a time. Last of all, he kills you.”

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction

 

With apologies to Stephen King

 

 

  1. neelwritesblog

    Mr Hardy, this is by far one of the best solutions i have come across in a long, long time. Hope he takes up the offer and gets cured. Excellent writing.

    Reply
  2. mandibelle16

    Wow, incentive to stop indeed. That should be enough for him to stop right there. Or maybe he needs a couple bodyguard/babysitter who is always with him and never let him drink. He could afford them.

    Reply

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