Prompt: Write a realistic story with one glaringly unrealistic element.

At 44 foot-pounds, Slick's torque-wrench slipped off a flywheel bolt and his knuckles sped into the teeth along the edge. He swore violently as a crimson pool welled slowly into the pale fissure the steel extremities had rent in the back of his hand. He chucked the wrench into a corner where it skitterred behind a radiator and glinted resentfully back in his direction.
By Slick's count, this was three such incidents, and long past time to pack it in. After a certain point, you break more than you fix and he'd probably blown by that a while ago. He'd done a lot of good work today, both here and at school, and what he deserved and sorely needed right now was a beer.
He wiped a little of the grease off a filthy rag onto his hands and dug around on the shelf near the kitchen door, unofficially earmarked for the storage of herbicide, laundry detergent, and alcohol. No dice, damn it. Slick pushed a box of color-safe Tide out of the way and peered behind it. It wasn't like his brother didn't drink beer. Jenny kind of did her own thing with supplies, but Mason had no excuse. He drank community beer, ate community food, and yet if Slick didn't buy shit, it didn't get bought. He couldn't really blame Mason for being lazier than he was, or cheap, but he could blame him for being oblivious. "Oh there's one," he thought, interrupting himself. There behind the Weed and Feed. "Man, how long has that been here?" One solitary bottle. Pretty dusty. Probably pretty old. "Oh well," he reasoned, "Any port in a storm."
Slick sighed and screwed off the cap as the canister detonated in a furious spray of foam. "Oh shit!" He ran for the sink, cupping one hand under the boiling bottle in a futile attempt to save the laminate floor while he marveled at the maelestrom he'd unleashed. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary bottle for all intents and purposes, but the inside was like a pressurized water main. The entire world for a few frozen moments was engulfed by it's tantrum of suds. When the smoke cleared, Slick was standing over the sink with a dripping bottle, cursing lightly. An unusually big guy with a turban and baggy pants stood behind him.
Slick shook the bottle a couple times to get the residue off his hands and carefully turned around, vaguely aware that someone was in the room with him, but moreso that that someone was clearing his throat to speak. 
"Ask of me any two wishes," the guy said, "and they shall be granted."
All this was taking a little while to register.
"Who-- I-- Are you a-- wait a minute; two wishes? What the hell's with that? I thought I got three."
"Two," the genie repeated with factual conviction.
"Well, you're telling the story, pal." It was pretty much exactly how Slick would have expected a genie to look if someone had told him he'd be talking to one tonight in the kitchen. Goofy shoes, gold earrings. Kind of an amalgamation of gypsy and desert shiek. Charming accent that defied immediate classification.
"But if you're serious" he continued, "You could get me some beer. This bottle's the only one I could find, and well" he absent-mindedly sloshed what was left of the fluid in a circular race around the bottom, "in light of the fact that you've been sleeping in it for, you know, who knows how long, I think I'm just gonna dump it out."
The genie vanished in an instant leaving a vaguely scented breeze of palm oil and salt to gently sway the blinds on the windows and flap a couple memos stuck to the fridge. Slick stood motionless as the remains of his drink glugged out of the dusty vessel and fizzed it's way into the drain at the bottom of the sink.
That was pretty wierd.
A moment later there was a rattling of bottles in the garage. Slick stepped through the doorway in disbelief.
"Hol--". He swallowed and tried again, his mind stolidly refusing to accept the data his senses were handing in. "Holy crap that's a lot of beer."
"As you wished, master."
Slick picked a bottle out of the nearest crate, turning the label to face him. "Is this Singha from Thailand?! Christ, guy, there's a Seven Eleven just down the street. I was thinking..."
He put the bottle down as he realized the extent of his ingratitude.
"I mean-- it's not that. um-- I've just never had beer from", he picked up another container, "Terra Del Fuego before."
"It's good."
"Yeah?"
"A little fruity."
"Really. I'd have thought-- wait a minute; was that a joke?"
The genie cracked a smile wider than his head.
"I didn't know genies made jokes. Here, buddy," Slick threw the big guy a can, "share a cerveza with me."
The genie obediantly caught the can, but his smile faded on contact. "Oh no, sir, I can not do this. It is your beer, not mine."
He tried to hand it back, but Slick wasn't having any of it. "Whatever, man. Twenty-four twelve fluid ounce bottles from the Republic of Mali? That's like nine kilograms of beer alone. The glass involved has to double it for what can't be less than a 15,000 click trip one way. Hell, you deserve one of these things at least just for getting past customs."
The genie eyed the can in his hand apprehensively.
"I'm your master or whatever right? I'm orderring you to relax. Put your feet up or something. Have a drink."
Slick collapsed into an arm-chair in the living room, popping open his beer with a satisfying crack. He rolled his head a little on his neck and sighed. "Yikes, what a day."
The genie sat down gingerly on the sofa, back straight, gripping the can on his knee. He looked a little lost and uneasy.
"So what's it like living in a bottle?" Slick prompted, grimacing before the last word even passed his lips. "I mean, physically wedged in under the cap."
The genie drew in his breath. "Well you see, sir, I'm agoraphobic by nature..."
Slick mumbled through his first gulp of beer and waved his hand dismissively.
"I beg your pardon?"
Swallowing, "Slick, buddy, not 'sir'."
"Slick?"	
"That's right. Don't waste time trying to figure out what about me's so smooth, though. It's a self-applied monicker of irony. My real name's mythological, but I don't go in for that kind of crap. Although," he ammended lamely, "I may have to reorder my convictions a little after today."
"Slick, then."
"Excellent. I assume you have a name."
"Certainly, but it's very long. You may find it hard to pronounce."
Slick never had much tolerance for that particular line of reasoning. How did this guy know what Slick could and could not pronounce? How did he know he wasn't multi-lingual? How did he know Hindi wasn't his first language? What gave him the right to draw cultural conclusions about Slick from a cursory physical observation? Was he psychic or something? In a handful of generations, these kind of biological generalizations-- Oh wait. Maybe he was psychic. Slick tried to remember whether or not genies were psychic as he said "Never mind that, cheif, I just want to hear -you- say it. It's kind of a custom of introduction."
"Of course."
The genie proceeded to intone an improbably long string of vowel sounds punctuated intermittently by glottal stops and the letter K.
"Wow." Slick took another tug of his beer and smiled warmly. "About a sixer more of these and everything I say'll sound like that."
"You still have one wish, Slick."
"All business aren't you? Well, you've probably got other people to see so..." Slick glanced at the books stacked behind him on the desk. Yeah, that homework wasn't gonna do itself. "How's your Chinese?"
"Dialect?"
"Mandarin."
"Bu hao."
"Yeah, mine too." He could forget about physics and his open linux contracts; it was just a hunch, but this guy was probably creeping up on the big three thousand. His history book would read like science fiction. 
"Can I wish for world peace?"
"If I told you others have, would that dissuade you?"
"Well it would kind of make me doubt the efficacy of wishing at all. Why?. Are you telling me?"
"Yes."
"Well, can I wish for more wishes?"
The genie just looked tired.
"Alright, um... " Time to think. He could have anything here. A good job. A family. A house. A harem. A yaht. A fucking football team. "Er...". Meteoric fame, The respect of his peers. A running car. "Ah..." He could be seven feet tall, built like Paul Bunyan, and hung like his blue ox Babe. No possibility was barred to him. He could have literally anything he'd ever wanted without even getting off his ass. 
"I guess the beer's enough for me," he said. "I'll forfeit the last wish or whatever. Thanks for the offer, though."
"Forfeit?"
"Yeah, you know, surrend it. You can have it if you want."
"Why on earth would you do that?"
"I don't know," he said, massaging the back of his hand. "I guess I don't appreciate things unless I earn them. Yeah, it's a pain, and the whole time you're wishing you didn't have to work so hard, but that's what life's about kind of; right? Working for what you want and appreciating what you already have." He paused. "Sounds kind of played out, doesn't it?"
"Slightly."
Slick didn't really care. He laced his fingers behind his head, and stared at the ceiling to enhance a memory. "When I was twelve years old, I remember mowing lawns for an entire summer to pay for a single-speed second-hand Schwinn from a kid down the street. I thought that bike was the coolest thing in the world."
"Was it?" the genie asked with little interest.
"Oh hell no. It was a piece of crap. The frame was like cast iron or something-- weighed more than I did-- and the brakes didn't work for shit, but you couldn't tell me that. For years I rode that thing everywhere, oiled it, tuned it up. I suppose if you were there to give me a brand new chromalloy 21 speed instead I would have been more apt to bitch about how the color wasn't right or the shifting mechanisms were a little stiff." He lowered his eyes again. "It's like celebrities, you know. Especially child actors. World on a silver plate, and all they do is whine and vie for more. I know I sound like an old man here, but it's hard to really enjoy something if you're deprived of the satisfaction involved in earning it, you know" He tilted his head back to finish the beer in the corner of the can. Rattled it a little as he brought it back down, crushed it, and balanced it on the arm of the couch. "Although I didn't do anything for that, and I certainly have no complaints."
"So you don't want anything. That is your wish."
"I don't want you to give me anything else. That's my wish. I choose to forego the shortcut."
"You're sure about that."
"Oh yeah."
"Then it is acceptable." The genie concluded, looking notably more relaxed.
"Great," said Slick getting up. "Does that mean you're off duty now? I'm gonna get another beer. How're you doing with that one?"
On his way to the garage, Slick felt a faint tug of remorse for not asking the genie to help him hammer out an English story that didn't sprawl for three pages and go nowhere, but he dismissed the thought summarily. Literary cohesion and proportion, he told himself, would be just another thing he'd appreciate more in the earning.