“The fifth beer always gets me in the lungs.”

Pual said on top of a swiveling neck.

“The lungs?”

asked Rake, trying to look seriously interested. A drunk

smile crept onto his face and Paul thought he looked young

again for a moment.

“After I’ve had a few… you know…like, my fucking tongue

goes spelunking into the fumes of the ale, man.”

Rake only stares at him with bewildered amusement.

"The permeating affect " -- Paul emphasises with a

sharp spray of spit. The alchohol steals his thought, then he

continues—“every process is coated… I don’t feel human

anymore… like… I’m the host for the beer, it’s fucking

alive now that I drank it’s tainted soul.”

He unexpectedly stabs the neck of the bottle into his throat

and shakes involuntarily like he’s being attacked. He rolls his

eyes back and plops out his tongue. Rake’s only response is

laughter. Paul is his best friend.