It’s really startin’ to get fucked. I know my stepmom’s a bitch, but that’s no excuse, really. I’m sure there’s plenty of girls who’ve had to clean the house. I guess that’s what I get for downin’ a fifth of Grey Goose before I got down to cleanin’ shit up. I’ve blacked out before, but that was a real dick move on her part to get the handyman to drag my passed-out ass into the fuckin’ woods. I was so paranoid that he was gonna try to kill me. When I came to I just started runnin’ like they lit a fire under my ass. I heard gunshots and a half an oink in the distance…

I dunno what was in that bottle, but the next thing I know I’m surrounded by a bunch of woodland critters that might as well have been talkin’ to me. You know, rabbits making gestures and shit. At this point, I was too crunked to care, and I followed them deeper into the forest. Damn if I didn’t come across a little shack. The hole in my lip was gettin’ dry, so I grabbed my flask before I crashed on the floor.

Next thing I know: “Hi, ho!” Seven little men. SEVEN! You ever been septuple-teamed? I gotta stop drinking around men. Seriously. It gets worse—they make me cook them dinner. Shit. I should have stayed home. At least stepmom doesn’t lock the liquor cabinet.

It went on that way for a like a month. I wouldn’t mind so much if the little one didn’t keep sneezing on me. Motherfucker must have a cold, and I don’t want it. Anyway, it went on with the cooking until the day that old bitch showed up sellin’ fruit. I just figured she was Mexican and bought some on the cheap. I decided to make some Sangria, and it was STRONG. One swig and…

Back to the floor. Long story short, I wake up in a fuckin’ glass box with some blond dude I don’t recognize trying to stick his tongue down my throat. Eew, yo.

I’ve gotta stop drinking around men.

Seriously. I’m done with the hooch. Yeah. No more booze for me. Damn skippy. I’m switching to pure flake cocaine, baby. That’s right.

Who’s Snow White now, bitchez?

The bartender says, “don’t tell me what ya want, boys, I have a knack for guessin’, but ya gotta let me look around ya mouth to see what ya like.”

Newton, being a man of science, volunteers to go first. He opens wide as the barkeep looks inside, his face barely an inch from his lips.

“Aha!” he exclaims, “You’re an apple-tini man!” Newton is taken aback by the accurate prediction and happily takes the drink the barkeep prepares him.

Next, the archbishop steps up, being a man of faith. The bartender gets even closer, with his eyelashes clearly within the archbishop’s mouth. “Aha!” he exclaims, “Yer a bloody Mary man!” The visibly impressed bishop happily begins to sip his prepared drink.

Finally, the bartender goes up to the lawnmower. He sticks his face right into the machine’s maw before getting it ripped off in a bloody mess of clippings and crimson

‘cause it’s a fucking lawnmower

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Just take one, two, or a WHOLE BOTTLE in a bowl of MILK if you’re not a PUSSY and sleep for two FUCKING HARDCORE hours. You’ll wake up feeling similar to the SECOND COMING OF CHRIST.

“How was smoking, brah-ntosaurus?” I asked. That last bit had come to me in a paleontological flash.

“Hey, brah! Good one!”

“Was it?”

“Yeah! The best I ever came up with was ‘Brah-k to the Future.’ “

“That’s not very funny, Peter.”

“I know.”

Did he know? Did he? I tried to look into his eyes, but all I got was the short black hair at the back of his head, as he had sat at his computer, returning to the conquest of Aiur.

I again walked out of the room, this time crossing our micro-foyer and entering the other room of the suite, held by two easy-going computer science majors. Let me call them Jim and Bob*, though neither of them are innocent or worth protecting.

“Hey Jim.” Jim didn’t stop playing his practice drumset, and answered me back over his shoulder, keeping time on those strange rubber cymbals.

His voice stayed beat-worthy too. “How’s. it. Go. Ing. Dude?”

“I think,” I said, closing his door and then walking towards him, lowering my voice conspiratorily, “that our new ‘friend’ Peter is smoking in our bathroom.”

“I’ve. Done. Worse. Man.”

“I didn’t need to know that. Also, try it in Iambic Pentameter.”

He stopped drumming, staying the silent rubber cymbals out of habit. There was a long pause, and then Jim turned.

“What shall be done to him by we Is not for me to say. Though loath to be a passenger upon this ship of hate, I can but watch the unwinding of fate.”

“You are such a dick, Jim.”

“Let it be known- a phallus am I then.”

“Bye, Jim. I think you inverted that last bit.”

He turned back to the drums.

“Now is the winter of our discontent.”

I walked into the bathroom, locking the door. I pressed my head against the cool tile. I was alone in my endeavors then. A solitary hero. Separate from society, cut off by his quest, misunderstood and sour. Hardboiled. This so-called Peter just another gangster, another thug to be trampled under the heel of my moral, moral boot. And he was an invader, too, a despoiler of land, a rapist of civilization. Room 314 was my Troy, and Peter an awful Greek, come to burn the city, having entered silently in the womb of the Horse of Presumed Morality. This depraved, ineloquent Jersey Barrier was the new Rock to which I was Prometheanically chained.

I came home from class a few days later to find him sitting on his bed, two of his thuggish friends lounging like mafia blackjack dealers, asses on edges of chairs, elbows on knees, hands pressed together in false prayer, or conspiracy. They were passing around a bottle of Bankers Club Rum.

“Oh hey brah!” said Peter. “I thought you had class.”

“I had it.”

“Oh, well, uh, these are my brahs. We’re just killin’ time.”

“For what?”

“What, brah?”

“What are you killing time for? Some hip party?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure, brah.”

“You know we’re not supposed to have alcohol in here… no one here is of age.”

“Oh, well, I figured since you were so chill, brah, about that whole scrunchie thing…”

“Was there an age question that night, Peter?”

Peter looked me in the eyes. And winked. That horrible wink. He clearly had never tried such a wink before, as it scrunched the whole side of his face. “No, brah. S’all cool.” He kept the wink; it looked like he had just lost an eye after spitting up a tooth.

“Well then.”

“Brah-hemians! Pack that shit. I think we better head out.” The two henchmen got up. I half expected them to fold their chairs, but then I remembered that we weren’t in some Midtown loft playing Texas Hold ‘Em for the use of each other’s dames.

“Are you gonna be out past your bedtime… brah?”

“Oh fuck yeah, man.” He fist bumped one of his minions, and tried to fist bump me.

I did not return the gesture. “Ok, man.” he said. “Too cool. Too cool. Hey brahs, my other brah here is just. too. cool.”

Only my gentlemanly restraint, and the growing temptation to wait and see how weird it could get, kept me from lifting him up by the shirt and tossing him out of the window.

“You know it, brah-ve New World.” I said.

They all chuckled. As they exited the room, Peter turned. With that same sharklike gaze of knowing that I had seen earlier, he casually, though carefully, winked.

It was war.

Editor’s Note: “Jim” and “Bob” eventually wrote for readme, did improv with me and MesmericKiwi, and “Jim” played in the band with me and Sgt. Earth through which I met and began dating farkle-farkle. This is very important to the story.

Remember this, okay? Remember what’s going on right now, especially the part about how I’m completely plastered. You’re gonna remember that, right? Good, ’cause later we can look back and talk about how hammered I was. That’ll be great, won’t it? I can’t wait to get together later and remind everyone that I got absolutely wrecked. Then we can tell other people about it too! You could be all like “Dude, he was so totally blitzed, it was crazy!” When other people hear about how much I had to drink, they’ll think I’m so cool. They’ll be like “Wow, that guy is truly worthy of our admiration, because he imbibed a substantial quantity of alcohol that one time.”

Oh, man. I remember this one other time, I got, like, really really trashed. It was nuts. I don’t even remember it, that’s how drunk I was. I know, it’s awesome, right? The next day, everyone was like “Yeah, dude, you had so much to drink last night. You were totally obliterated!” They all thought I was so cool ’cause I drank so much. Did I ever tell you about that one time I got absolutely destroyed? I did, really? Just now? Wow, I don’t even remember that. Yeah, that’s how annihilated I am, I don’t even remember what I just said. I don’t even know what I’m saying right now. Make sure to mention this when you tell other people about this later, because that will be an important detail to help illustrate just how utterly decimated I was.

Hey, somebody get a picture of this! Hold on, let me turn this beer bottle so that you can see the label. Okay, now somebody take a picture of me holding up this bottle of beer! Yeah, and make sure you get the bottle in the frame. Tomorrow I’ll post this picture on facebook so that everyone can see a photo of me holding a beer and then they’ll know how cool I am.