5 Dollar Milkshake Pulp Fiction Novels & Stories

It should have felt like freedom but I felt hollow deep down, stepping out with me would have gone a long to quell the storm raging inside me, but I guess he choose the hard way, would have been disappointed if he didn't. Well I wanted to see the look on his face as it all goes down. But I guess I would have to imagine it now. The bar buzzed around me, but I stayed disconnected, a ghost sipping the sour whiskey like some juice, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, behind the counter, painted lips with dead eyes. I was still lost in thought when the lights flickered, Morgan shifted behind me, but I paid no attention, I took another sip of the whiskey.

, Blanca gives me the middle finger, “It’s on me today.” Before we leave, I order a chocolate frapuccino for myself, a red fruit milkshake for Blanca and an unsweetened cappuccino for Dom. When the waitress hands it to me, I thank her. Blanca pays the bill, and I take the macerated pills, a white powder, out of my bag. I open the cappuccino, pour the powder in and mix it with the straw. “Whoever sees it from the outside... even thinks Maurice is right, you know?”

I would do anything to keep that smile on her face, and save her from the darkness of the cruelty this world has to offer. Now here I am in the kitchen making a senseless milkshake trying to convince myself that it will make me feel better. This temporary relief, like how people believe that alcohol with take away people’s pain. Ignoring that it is temporary and untrue. I stopped the blender and poured the milkshake into a cup, added the whip cream, put a metal straw in it and just stood there. Not even touching the useless drink. When I was just a young child, I would be looking at this was such glee. Eager to drink the tasty beverage. Now I stand here looking at it with dislike.

They were excited for it already. When they got back to Tony's place, he told Dillon about some shot he found on YouTube that was supposed to taste like Cinnamon Toast Crunch-milk. It was two ounces Fireball, two ounces Rumchata, and two ounces cream soda. He split the mix in two and topped each with whipped cream and ground cinnamon. It was already ten minutes past midnight when they got in, but they didn't care that they missed the New Year or the Ball Drop. No, they had their own New Year. That New Year's was also the one where he had one of the best shots he'd ever had and that tasted like cereal milk. He'd had lots of different shots at his Uncle Tom's on Christmas. It was fun to get bu

rambled James Miller which made Becky even more shrunken because his guess was almost right. He took a step forward, his face right in front of her. "So with that small amount of money that you have, how are you going to pay back the four hundred million dollars Leonardo Da Vinci painting that your father stole from me?" Becky glared, her eyes almost popping out of place. "What did you say? Four hundred million dollars?" she hissed in disbelief. She thought James was going to say he was joking or something, but the very serious expression on his face made her feel sick instantly.

“No, like who was it? Rohmer! He did Fu Manchu around then too and hung out with them.” “Well, isn’t that something. How much?” “Thirty-five.” A complete rip off, but the proprietor’s hippy funk began to overpower Jon’s gag reflex. He threw down the cash and retreated with his prize. Mutterings by the old man about this “slacker generation” and kids who “had no respect” and were “dumb as shit” followed him out the door.

"No doubt. The meal, especially the meatballs are great but what else is special about this food cart??" Lucas paused as if he was hesitating or sharing too much. He dropped his empty cup of coffee and grabbed a second one. Silence rolled between them as he took the second cup of coffee amongst the six cups that he bought. "They sell great coffees and three-dollar milkshakes." He spaced out a little bit before adding. "And I loved it as a kid." It seemed like there was an ongoing battle within him. And talking about his childhood was not something he would want to do.

I was sitting across Cleo who looked guilty and the last thing I wanted to do was make her feel bad for not being strong enough. "Cleo I asked you a question ?" " Good morning . " " Wow ." I grabbed Cleo's milkshake and took a sip . I didn't get it then but now I do . The milkshake was strawberry flavoured and it was so thick and cold and the texture in my mouth was like a slice of my childhood . I haven't had a milkshake in so long that I forgot what it felt like to feel like a child . " I really don't want to get into this argument with you today . "

He put it on the side table and turned to take the t-shirt off the chair, but somehow my eyes didn’t move from the milkshake. "Don’t worry, I have not poisoned it." I sat on the bed and stirred the milkshake; something about the milkshake strung me, like someone singing a song in a different language—you caught the music but you didn’t understand the words. I took a sip finally; it cooled me down and gave my thoughts room to work themselves out.