Whiskey fiends prowl slick streets and howl at the moon for one more hit of the good stuff. The gutters overflow with rivers of cheap rye spilled from cheap plastic glasses, and the wind whistles through orchestras of empty beer bottles to play the symphony of Hangovers to Come. Choruses of tossed cigarette butts sing backup.
Bottles of tequila make people make bad decisions, and the refuse and blood of those bad decisions are painted on the walls of alleys and the bathrooms of dangerous bars; the kind of bars you know you shouldn’t go into, because nothing good can come of it. You always end up there anyway though, because you can’t turn down what they’re selling, and besides, you’re only there for, “just one drink.”
It’s never just one. You are a slave to the demons of the binge, and when they clarion call for you to start that fourteenth drink, you have no choice but to snub out your cigarette and start sucking down something from an unclean glass.
I say “something” because you forgot what you were drinking a while ago. At some point, all of the music in this place turned into a chaotic pastiche of noise, all the people in this place had masks for faces that you could change around, and all of your thoughts stumble in your brain and dry heave against the walls.
I used to be one of you; I used to be among you.
In the land of the blind, the man with one eye is king.
In the land of the drunks, the sober man is king, but he doesn’t want to be, he just wants a fucking drink.