The Bonsai Palm Grove

The bullet had passed right through his arm, midway between shoulder
and elbow leaving a wound through which, when healed and the muscle
flexed, one could see a dim winking light from the far end of the well
of flesh.
He liked it.
He planted a grove of bonsai palm trees within the pores around it and
cut large holes in the left sleeves of all his shirts and
jackets.
"It's me bonny oasis," he'd tell the weary travellers, "did ye wanna
stop for a drink?"
At this point he'd reach into the hole and pull a bottle from deep
within his broad, muscled arm.
Beverages were dependant upon season.
In the summer, rum was the standard and in spring, tequila.
Autumn favoured whiskey but the widest selection was reserved for the
winter, the cold time being that time when an oasis of firewater is
most desirable: vodka, absinth, gin, brandy, schnapps, the list was as
long as it was varied and as varied as it was potent.
In time, as he aged, his figure shrank, his limbs withered and his
muscles atrophied.
Miniature bottles replaced litres, milk of magnesia became the tipple
for all seasons and wayfarers stopped at the oasis less and less and
finally not at all.
One day the roots from the bonsai palms reached his heart.
Furry red berries grew fat and heavy high on the leaves of the trees
and when they fell, they filled the lesion with a fast-fermenting
juice.
Still no people came but as he faded and died, worms came to drink from
the man's arm, sipping no more than a little before falling to the
ground, intoxicated and happy.
Birds then ate the worms and the drunkenness was passed on.
"It's me bonny oasis," he whispered to the staggering owls and
swallows, "I'm glad you stayed for a drink."