Page 1 of Revelry

Istare down into my Jack and Coke. The ice has melted, the condensation on the outside of the glass is long gone, evaporated away by the dense heat in this shithole of a pub. I’ve done nothing but wander aimlessly from one dodgy establishment to the other for days now. As long as they were happy to keep serving me drinks, I was happy to keep handing over my hard earned cash to get well and truly shitfaced. If there was a level of consciousness beyond shitfaced, I’d happily jump on that fucker and drive my dick right through to the other side, just to forget.

I tighten my grip on the glass until I finally feel a different kind of pain than the one in my chest, where my fucking heart used to be. My arm trembles and the bartender takes his eyes from the footy match on the screen and scowls.

“Last drink, mate.” he says in a gruff, apathetic voice before he turns his attention back to the TV with its shitty, fuzzy reception. I pull my wallet out and slap two hundred bucks down on the bar. He eyes the money appreciatively and then cocks a bushy grey brow at me.

“Keep ’em comin’.” I slur, tossing back the remainder of my drink. “No, you know what; give me the strongest fucking drink you have.”

“Alright, but you chuck up in my bar, I’m gonna make you clean that shit up and then I’m gonna charge ya, double. You got that, kid?”

“Yeah, loud and clear, old man.”

He takes down a bottle of amber liquor and lines up three shot glasses, pouring booze into them. He slides two towards me. I down them one after the other. Revelling in that shit as it burns its way down my throat and sits like battery acid in my empty stomach.

“Jesus, what the fuck was that?”

I cough and rub at my chest. I think about retching, because my stomach feels as though it’s just been turned inside out, but the bar tender shoots me a look that says I’ll be mopping it up with my face if I chuck up on his bar.

“Inner Circle Black Rum.” He downs his shot and slaps at his own chest with a meaty fist. “Seventy-five per cent alcohol. That’ll put hair on your balls, sunshine.”

“Will it make me shit out my liver too?”

“Probably.” He studies me a moment, and pours another shot. I can’t help but notice he turns and puts his glass in the sink. “Well, whoever she was she must have done a fucking number on ya, kid.”

“Who said anything about a woman?” I say bitterly, and suck back the shot. After the alcohol burns away, deep molasses and burnt toffee roll over my tongue. The booze, though, it strikes the inside of my head like a fucking anvil. I gotta get Deb to get me some of this shit.

“No one had to.” He chuckles. “You think you’re the only sorry-arsed bastard who’s ever wound up at my bar nursing a broken heart? Look around you, kid. Everyone here is nursing a broken something.”

I glance around at the other patrons. A haggard blonde wearing leopard print sways back and forth beside the jukebox while Cold Chisel plays. There’s an old dude at the opposite end of the bar, nursing his scotch and looking as fucking miserable as everyone else in this joint.

What a depressing shithole of a bar.

“That’s life, kid. It’s a fucking shit fight. So what? You’re a good lookin’ kid, and I can tell by that fancy leather jacket you’re wearing that you probably make more money in a week than this bar makes in three months. You’re not starvin’. You’ve probably got a big fucking apartment with a soft bed to lie down on at night. So you lost a girl? So fucking what? You drink till you’re done, and you get up, and move on.”

“She wasn’t just a girl!” I stand and kick the chair out from under me, but then the world starts to sway back and forth and I stagger to the stool beside the one I just kicked over. I sit and bury my face in my hands.Is it possible to have a hangover while you’re drunk?

“You want my advice?”

“No.”

“Good. Then drink your fucking Jack and Coke and shut the hell up. I’m missing a game here.” He places a fresh glass in front of me and turns his attention to the TV.

The door opens behind me, and noise from the city filters in. I love this city—the traffic, and the anonymity and facelessness of the people scurrying around its streets. All of it is noise, and music, all of it a rhythm so addictive and yet so mundane that we take its beauty for granted. Of course now I get to see a lot less of the city I love. I’m no longer faceless. Kind of hard to be when the record company plaster your face all over every billboard from here to Timbuk-fucking-tu.

The bartender lets out a low whistle. “Ivy Bar is a block back in the other direction, darlin’.”

I hear a familiar unimpressed laugh and slam my head against the wet beer mat lining the bar.

“No, no, no, no, no,” I mutter. But my sister doesn’t care about my objections, she just grabs a fistful of my hair and tugs my head up so I have to meet her disappointed gaze.

Fuck she’s like our mum.

Seriously, if she wasn’t my blood relative I’d be very afraid for my life right now. Or maybe that should make me more afraid.

Who fucking cares? You’re screwed either way, arsehole.

Deb releases my head without warning and my forehead slaps against the wooden edge of the bar. “Ouch, fuck. Little warning before you do that.”

“This her?” The Bartender waggles his brows up and down.

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