It's what my brother called the cheap gin
in the tall-shouldered bottles
on the bottom shelf
in Jim's Package Store.
Wayne, the older brother of a friend, sold
us booze without an ID.
He charged a "markup" for the service.
We hiked
all the way down
to the flooded quarry to drink
because no one else went there.

Why plink, I asked after an hour
of molesting the bottle.

He held up a finger and drained the last
of the gin,
then pitched the bottle underhanded,
the gleaming missile arced
across the dark sky
and splashed down--
in even darker water.
Starlight glinted on the glass corners.
He scrounged
a handfull of stones, handed me several.
We took a few throws
to find our range--
black water gulping the stones until--
We both erupted in shouts of victory.
Another stone--plink!
And another--plink!
The stones getting larger until
the bottle burst,
leaving us
staring at the silent ripples. 

The End

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