“The fifth beer always gets me in the lungs.”
Pual said on top of a swiveling neck.
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.