Listen here, you sick bastards!
Kaiser sprung to his feet, clinking his glass in a feeble attempt at commanding attention from the raucous group. His wine threatened to spill over and his body sloshed with it. He managed to right himself and jumped atop the coffee table they pow-wowed around.
Kaiser, you fuck, you’ll break my table! Arielle scolded, swatting at his feet.
Ari, you picked that ratty piece off the curb outside Blaxton, he’d be doing you a favor if he destroyed it, Carvin countered.
Oh, yes! Teddy turned to her, bright-eyed, We could find you something much nicer.
Arielle whined, But this is the first thing I got for this place, it has a special spot in—
Here, here! I have the floor here! Kaiser grew impatient.
Oh, never mind, Finnegan! Now listen, you fucks. I would like, nay, I must, propose a toast.
Even the paintings on the wall rolled their eyes. Kaiser and his toasts. He proposes at least six every night, his way of getting the lot utterly smashed by sundown. It was nearing midnight and this would be tribute number eight since the start of the little get together. Already, they had drunk to the eradication of the mumps, the oldest living conjoined twins in Scotland and Teddy’s newest tattoo (a lightbulb behind her right ear), so who knew where the hell he was headed with this one. To be quite honest, no one ever had a clue with Kaiser, but they’d go along with him, no matter. Never was there a protest to inebriation.
It better be a toast to you getting me a new coffee table, should you destroy this one, Arielle warned.
Dear, sweet, lovely Arielle, you’re drunk and grouchy and I’m drunk and miffed that you’re taking away my spotlight over a failed woodshop project you call furniture! Nevertheless! I will ignore your trivial little outbursts, for what I have to say is of exceptional gravity.
The room was a symphony of scoffs and snorts. Alcohol always turned Kaiser into a pretentious, walking dictionary. If he caught on to their flippancy, it didn’t show. He picked up the bottle at his feet and turned in a circle, filling everyone’s glasses with the generous hand of a true bacchanal and emptying the dregs into his own.
We are but flickering stars in the universe, burning briefly, insignificantly, amongst the cosmos. But not tonight. Tonight, we are immortal. Burn bright, burn brazen, burn boundless. Dum vivimus vivamus!
Dum vivimus vivamus! The room chorused, throwing their heads back and draining their goblets.
Finnegan’s soul lifted with the clinking crystal, heightened laughter and sheer gregariousness of the evening. Maybe he really was immortal. Maybe it was the wine. He wouldn’t know, nor would he care, in the morning. Tonight he was eternal.
