The Bottle Pops (2)

We found ourselves at the top of a staircase on a mezzanine outside someone's second story apartment building. Surely nobody would be home.

Once Upon a Friendship

Just as we thought that, the door opened and a woman poked her head out.

"What are you doing here?"

We stated the obvious by looking at our bottle of whiskey. "Uhhhmm.. can we drink
here?"

She considered for a moment. "Yeah, sure. If you're quiet."

We weren't. The tables turned quickly. Such began Scrib's second act of severance towards our relationships.

Initially, we were gleeful and excited that this random woman had actually let us drink on her property. Our excitement was evident in our elated conversations, though, the conversations soon came to dwindle.Words were replaced by aggressive stumbles and aimless punches that flew through the air. There was no intention to this aggression - Scrib was simply acting as an icon of his current emotions. Fernweh joined in - he likes to hone his fighting skills - and I sat in the back with Snooze because I was too lazy and drunk to practice.

As Fernweh stepped into the circumference of Scrib's area-of-flail, the scene changed. His words - obnoxious, two dozen decibels too high if only to defile the kindness of the lady who's property we were on (she was surely now too scared to kick us off the property) [run on sentences are cool] - were senseless, violent and cacophonous. Finally, after a dozen minutes of rambling, he resorted into one of the most paleolithic methods of communication: violence.

With a glorious (albeit terrifying) shout, Scrib twisted his face into a contorted, screwed up mask of hatred. His eyes lost any sense of luster as he bellowed, "ALL I FEEL IS ANGER!!!"

He spun with the entirety of his 180 pounds of wait and clocked Fernweh in the face. Fernweh hit the ground and stood back up.

"What the fuck, man?" He stepped back. We'd never seen such mindless fury before; at least, not within one who we held in such high regard. It was scary to see someone you loved treat you with such disrespect.

"YOU ARE AFRAID!!" Scrib stepped forward towards Fernweh, who was leaned up against the fence that separated us from a story-and-a-half-fall. Every follicle that resided on Scrib's flesh flourished with fury as he backhanded Fernweh in the face again. Considering neither Fernweh or I had expected this, we weren't nearly prepared to jump into a state of hatred half as complete as Scrib's. We decided we were just going to leave - there's no point in beating the shit out of your friends. At least we were rational enough to realize that. The liquor was gone, anyways.

Your portfolio presents nothing but provocation.

Your potential's being taken apart, piece by piece;

being picked at by narcissistic fingernails;

a story narrated by pain itself. 

The first part of our walk sucked. Fernweh had been provoked, though at the time, he hadn't want to act on his anger. Now that me and him were alone, I had nothing to listen to but his furious rantings the surreal sound of Scrib's hand as it smashed against Fernweh's face. Fortunately, not far into our journey, we ran into a group of kids smoking a doobie. We struck up a conversation and ended up being passed a few tokes.

This happened no fewer than 5 times on our walk back to the bridge, and by the time we were there, we were so ripped that the night's aggression had diffused itself into a chink-eyed state of relaxation.

We set up our beds and laid down, trying not to let the distant memories penetrate our present mindstates. The night found us quickly.