The War of Words

Well, it hadn't happened in a while. Rain, that is. I was glad for this fact, for the depression that the gray skies enduced made me reach straight for the bottle. This bottle was no ordinary canister of alchohol. The pungent stench that resenated from it's content's seemed to go on for miles at a time. It seemed to speak to my internal organs; saying a different thing to each one. To my heart, it questioned it's strength. "Can you handle me? Are you strong enough?" To my lungs, "Breathe easy, young one. For your friends will be very busy tonight." To my kidneys, the bottle remained verbally suggestive. "What you are about to witness and experience will devastate your life for many years to come." To my bladder, the bottle spoke in an abusive tone, "You are not even worth mentioning." It was at this point that a curious character broke into the conversation. "Bottle, you have spoken to each one of my minions. However, you forget that it is I who holds the final decision as to why I should allow you to reek your destructive havok upon my fine friends that I, believe it or not, care so much about. You will be promptly destroyed, bottle, so as to never cause such havok again." It was my mind who had said this. He had finally awoken to the glorious sound of trumpets; the kind that behoove a king. It was my mind that made the decision, and threw the bottle to the ground, cracking its' glassy exterior, and spreading it's toxic insides upon the street.