Holy fucking Cthulhu, Fitz, what have you done to me? I've been a jabbering fool for days, all because of that bottle of cheap whiskey you got for me. Have any of you ever heard of Fleischmann's? I hadn't either, not until Friday night. It says on the label that it's been an American tradition since 1870, but they might just be delusional.
I am no stranger to cheap whiskey. Cheap whiskey has helped me through many lonely nights and long stretches when I haven't been able to get the good stuff. But Fleischmann's brought me to a whole different level of madness.
I remember showing up at Fitz's place. I remember a bunch of us having a conversation about the women who have fucked us over. Then Konz and a couple others showed up, and the mists of drunkenness started overcoming me. I remember vaguely some kind of card game, and holy shit! They were playing with Al-cocksucking-Swearengin from HBO's DEADWOOD. Was he really there? I don't think so. I recall them having a framed picture of the man on their wall, so I think they were just using that. The game was spades, but one of them was waving a knife around, and I think he might have shanked one of the losing players. Did they just kill a guy in front of me? Shit, what have I gotten myself into?
I do not recall going to the bar. Presumably, we did, but I don't recall doing so. I hereby apologize for any savage bullshit I might have pulled. Judging from my sore throat the following day, I think I did a lot of screaming, which is par for the course when I'm blacked out.
Anyway, the entire evening was lost in a haze of booze, and when I came back to myself, it was to a loud voice saying, "Hey, are you taking a piss?"
"Fuck no!" I screamed indignantly, but after a moment of careful consideration, I realized I actually WAS urinating. In one hand, I held the bottle of Fleischmann's, and in the other, my cold-shriveled dick. The sound of pattering fluid against metal was a pretty definite sign of what I was doing. I looked around, trying to figure out where I was, and I was still at Fitz's apartment complex, but I was outside, pissing against a Dumpster.
"You're really fuckin' wasted, man," the voice told me.
Who the hell was talking to me? Was I hearing voices? Was God finally speaking to me? And if it was Him, would He then ask me to kill?
"Where are you?" I asked.
"In the Dumpster. Where else?"
I peered over the top of the Dumpster, and sure enough, there was a guy in there, knee-deep in trash. He was kind of a short fellow, and it looked like he was ripping open garbage bags.
"What the fuck are you doing?" I asked.
"Looking for Marlboro Miles. You smoke Marlboros?"
"Sorry," I said. I looked down to see a yellow puddle at my feet, freezing over. Now that I was done, I flipped myself back into my pants and zipped up.
"I'm gonna' get me one of those sweet-ass jackets," the man in the Dumpster told me. "I'm almost there, too. It's gonna be fuckin' awesome."
I nodded. "Hey, do you see any Coke points in there?"
"Sure," he said. "A few. Trade 'em for a couple a' pulls on that bottle ya' got there."
I shrugged. "Sure."
He moved around for a bit, and I heard him spinning the tops off of several bottles. When he handed them over, I had about ten of them. I then gave him the bottle, and he tried taking a swallow.
"What the fuck?" he muttered. When he examined the top, he swore again. "I hate these fucking things. Sure, it makes pouring easier, but what about us guys who like drinking from the bottle?" He took another drink, then gave me the bottle back.
I took a swig, myself. Anyone else would have probably worried about whether or not this guy had something, but for those of you who have forgotten high school science class, alcohol kills germs.
"You live here?" I asked.
"Fuck no. I just come here for the Marlboro Miles. There's a few more Dumpsters, too, so I gotta' go."
"Me, too. Good to meet you."
I put the cap back on the bottle and started looking around, trying to get my bearings. It took me a little bit, but I finally realized where I was (and I must have been wandering around a long time before I came back to myself), and I started the trek back toward Fitz's place across some of the most treacherous ice and slush I've ever encountered. It didn't help that I was still tipsy. After a while, I realized I was staggering around like a lunatic, and I was holding the bottle the whole time. Things would not have gone so well if a cop just happened to come along. There was no way a bottle this big was going to fit in my pocket, so I held it inside my trench coat as I made my way through what could have been the movie set for John Carpenter's THE THING.
When I got back to where I must have started, I began looking around for my car, and I was not very successful. It was nowhere to be seen. As I stumbled blindly around, I kept pushing the button on my key ring that would make the lights flash. Nothing.
After a half an hour of wandering, I finally saw the bumper sticker (WHAT IS TABARD INN? GO TO: TALESOFQUESTIONABLETASTE.COM), and I made my way home. The next day, I came to feeling queasy, and I wasn't able to stand up without having the world spin around me. When I finally gained the courage, I looked at the bottle and realized I'd drunk between half and three-quarters of its contents. Horrified, I wondered if I should get my stomach pumped.
Later that night, I sat down to watch THE OX-BOW INCIDENT, and I brought my friend/arch-nemesis, Fleischmann's, to watch it with me. In the opening scene, Henry Fonda starts downing shot after shot of whiskey, and I decided to keep up with him. At the fifteen-minute-mark, I realized I'd had about six shots.
So, what the hell? Why not continue?
By the time the movie was over, I'd probably had about twenty shots or so. When I looked at the bottle to see where I was now, I was shocked to discover that the line of booze was just about at the same place. Was I losing my mind? Was I already wasted? I just felt buzzed.
So I started attacking the bottle as if I hadn't had a drink in months. My guts churned with cheap booze, and once more I found my life overcome by the mists of drunkenness.
I have one memory of jabbering wildly at some asshole who had broken into my bathroom and was walking around naked. I took me a moment to realize that I was screaming at the mirror.
The next day, the bottle was still filled one-quarter of the way. I felt like laughing and crying at the same time. When I ventured forth from my house to hang out with Jesse, Jason, and Vince, the neighbors looked strangely at me. I wondered what else I had done last night, then decided I didn't want to know.
The drive home from Jesse's sucked. It was so cold the inside of my windows were frosted over, and no amount of scraping was able to banish it. The garage door was frozen shut. A river of ice threatened to break my ass several times on the way to my back door.
It was time to get acquainted with Fleischmann's again. Not too much. Just enough to help me get to sleep. At least, that's what I told myself as I started swilling it directly from the bottle.
I woke up this morning naked on the bathroom floor in a puddle of my own blood. Clearly, it had come from my nose, but my face was not bruised and it didn't hurt much at all. During cold weather, I'm prone to nosebleeds, so that's what I guessed happened.
When I pushed myself to my feet, I realized that I'd written something on the mirror in my own blood. What it was, I honestly can't say. It was unintelligible.
I wondered vaguely how much I'd had to drink. Stumbling to my bedroom, I sought the bottle, and can you guess how much was left?
A FUCKING QUARTER OF BOOZE REMAINED!
For now, I am sober. Tonight, when I get home, I might have to attack that bottle again. It's either Fleischmann's or me, and something tells me I'm going to lose once more.
Or maybe I've won. Maybe I've found a bottomless bottle of booze. Could Dionysus be so generous?
Don't be surprised if I come in tomorrow, and I'm no longer me. Fleischmann's may have stolen my body by then. If it's me, I'll wear a red carnation . . . .
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