(Another contribution to this fun new E2 game.)

I'm not sure what I was drinking that night, or even precisely where I was. There were tables and chairs, and a distinct lack of ceiling. A beer garden, perhaps, or even a private party that I'd somehow managed to attend. My body was only just barely functioning, reeling its way from place to place with almost no input from my mind. I know that I was both dreadfully tired and filled with a boundless energy. It was an almost religious experience, pushing myself onwards and onwards and onwards, to the very boundaries that one must cross to convert self-flagellation into self-destruction. I didn't quite manage to cross over that night, although my nurse assured me that I'd come very close.

There isn't much that I can remember, but a single conversation remains clear in my mind, every word that was spoken imprinted legibly upon my reel of memory. A fat man in a business suit had come over and sat next to me while I was doubled over and vomiting profusely.

"Nice night." he said, his voice dreamy and toneless in my rememberings.

"Yea." was my cultivated reply as I wiped bile from my lips.

"So what brings you here?"

"Where's here?"

He laughed, then, with one of those wicked laughs that so clearly displays the mockery from which all humor derives. His teeth seemed sharp and pointed, cutting into his lips and leaving them a brighter crimson than they ought to have been. "We'll ignore that for now."

"Fine by me." I was miserable, but not from the drink. I wanted, desperately, to have something to say to this fearless man with pointy teeth. My very wish that I could speak intelligibly was defeating me, and I wasn't happy about it.

"So what do you do?" he asked, lighting up a white-filtered cigarette and speaking as the smoke caressed his face.

"I'm a writer."

"Are you now? I wouldn't have guessed", he smirked.

"Surprising." I couldn't believe it. He was actually baiting me, subtly mocking me and the degraded state he'd found me in. I could be a lunatic, I could be plotting to kill him at this very moment and he was reducing me to a cliche. I longed for a witty response, but none was forthcoming.

"I'm a reader, myself. Much less taxing."

"Fun." I was being stand-offish, I knew it. I was trying to rid myself of this horrible man, in his impeccable suit with his white cigarettes and his bloody red smile.

"Are you any good?" he asked, seeming amused.

"Fan-fucking-tastic." I responded, raising my head and looking into his eyes, uttering an old standby gleaned from R-rated movies with the conviction that it summed up my life. His eyes, though, unnerved me. They were brown, a soft shade, a shade for does and girls, but it was as though the whites held captive the colour, as if his pupils were in a slow state of contraction, gradually being forced out in favour of a uniformly milky hue.

"That's good. I don't much like the bad ones." he grinned again, smoke sneaking out from the corners of his lips and brushing up his pallid skin, a drop of blood in the cleft of his chin.

"What can you do?" I asked, weary and rhetorical.

"What do I do, you mean?"

"Yea, what to you do."

He stood from his chair and drew himself up, uncreased his suit and extinguished his cigarette. "I eat them by the handful."

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