A bottle was on a table. The table was old and wooden, brown and scratched. The bottle was almost empty with the brown liquid at the bottom. The liquid waited for its chance.

A yellowish, wrinkled hand stretched out and picked the bottle from the table. It was brought to a wrinkled face, framed in the gray, short hair and the gray short beard. A mouth opened, and the liquid was devoured in a single long, slow sip.

The liquid was whiskey, and the face belonged to an old motorist. He was on his way home when he stopped to make a break in a local pub, just a couple of miles from his house. The trip was long. All he wanted was to celebrate a success, not knowing what the liquid wanted. And it wanted to fulfill its destiny.

He stepped out with the evening sun in his misty eyes. He wiped them, sat on his motorcycle, and pressed the clutch. The tires screamed, leaving clouds of dust behind him. He felt the wind in his hair and freedom in his heart. A few seconds later, he was flying through the air with a scream in his ears.

He landed a few meters off the road, breaking his neck immediately. On the other side of the road, there was a bloody mass of what was a little blond girl crossing the road just a second earlier.

The destiny was fulfilled.