Party Jack chapter 1

Jack Quinn

The following may cause offence to certain readers.
This is a work of fiction.


Here lies Party Jack. You all know Party Jack, you’ve certainly met him. Maybe he’s one of your friends, colleagues, or acquaintances. Perhaps he’s a member of your family. You might even have been him. Possibly, you are him. The point is: you definitely know him.
So, there he is; twisted around himself where he fell the night before, pissy summer light running into his bedroom, his clothes a crumpled statue on the floor where he stepped out of them. He isn’t alone under those sheets; his bedfellow is a kebab. There’s a digger outside munching earth - another greedy Paddy building in their back garden - it growls pretty loud, but he can’t hear it.
The room has very little in it; he really only uses it to crash, and it stinks of that garlicky stale booze stench.
He is spleen deep in poison.
Any minute now the toxic foul of Party Jack’s breath is going to wake him, he’s going to pop up bleary eyed and panicky, doing this sort of chicken thing with his neck as he tries to get his bearings- there he goes; that chicken thing is priceless!
He’s a very good-looking guy, isn’t he? Even in this state. You should see him scrubbed up: dark boho hair, just the right amount of scruff, brilliant eyes, a big Hollywood smile, the lines around his eyes suggest that he’s had his fun. He’s a hunky twenty-something. And now he’s in it, the stodge of a hangover, well, not quite; he’s still a little drunk and brimming over with questions, gawking into the black hole that is the night before.
He looks down at his pillow; it’s covered in silky hairs. He picks one up- is the party over already?
Where was I? Oh, that Amnesty thing. Who was I with? Mallory of course; that is good, he will call him later- fill in the blanks. His phone? On the bedside table, beside his wallet. It’s always astounded him how he’s never lost them, no matter how wasted he gets.
He peers again hard into that morning mystery. He checks his fists. No cuts or bruises; he didn’t get into a fight or take on a wall. Then why does he have that nervous knot in his stomach, that simmering angst? What did he do?
It was all going grand up until a certain point; in fact, it was going swimmingly- Amnesty International function, bit of grub, spot of ligging, the usual crowd; wholesome types, lots of hot crusty foreign kittens.
‘Mallory, there’s jail time in the wind. Oh yeah, Daddy wants to play!’
Oh yeah, he’d met that lovely Danish girl, what was her name again? God, she was hot, good English too.
‘So you’re Danish then? Y’don’t meet many Danes in these parts, unless of course you’re a ninth century Irish peasant!’ Literally gatling repartee he was, they loved him- everyone loves Party Jack. Oh and the barman; he was showing the barman how to make fancy cocktails. Yeah, and then he invented a new drink called Heuston we have a problem, involving cascading flaming green Chartreuse and Sambuka- God, they were chanting around him at the bar. That girl was so impressed, they all were. Then his merriment started to chew holes in the night. Had he even done anything? There was a strong possibility he was grand; the others were all drunk too. Oh, and then he remembers: after his burning extravaganza, he had an argument with the barman; only the wine was free, he had to pay for the cocktails he’d made. Now, that didn’t bother Party Jack; money is no object to him, ‘earn to burn’ is his motto. His credit card bills are a sniggering testament to his crazed debaucherous carnage. The problem was they didn’t accept credit cards, this pissed Party Jack off no end.
‘What do you mean you don’t take credit cards? What kind of place is this? Hello, last time I checked we were in the twenty-first century. I don’t carry money; filthy stuff, it’s so working class, it’s so vulgar and embarrassing; it smacks of effort. What, do you expect me to carry round a roll of cash like a car salesman or a gangster? It’s bad enough as it is. What we need to do is wash this country of the unwashed masses. There, I said it!’
The barman didn’t appreciate his comments. Naturally, Mallory picked up the tab. He remembers the look on the Danish girl’s face; perplexed, as if to say, ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ His little outburst, he fears, was the retch before the vomit. That could have been what set him off.
‘My father was a barman you know Jack,’ the Dane informs.
‘Oh really? Is he better than me- no one’s better than me! I’m kidding, I’m kidding. He must have been a very pretty, graceful, intelligent man to produce a girl like you. Anyway, forget these cocktails; I’m going to get horribly drunk if I continue this way. Let’s have some wine- much more civilised. Taste this little Chilean Merlot; just the vulgar side of boisterous, go ahead, take a sip, let it sing in your mouth; it’s like an out of tune pop song…hey, do you want to see a magic trick? Watch this: my phone is like a snow globe, you know, those Christmas ornaments you shake and snow swirls around. Well, all I have to do is get an angel to shake my phone and magically a message will arrive. Now, where would I find an angel? Go ahead, give it a try,’ he hands her the phone. ‘Just give it a little shake,’ she shakes the phone innocently. ‘That’s it,’ the phone beeps. ‘You see. Oh and look who it is: it’s my little goddaughter Lily! She is so adorable; look what she wrote,’ he shows her the text. ‘Hold on I’m just gonna text her back…yeah well I know what you mean, but everyone has a sort of existential crisis around twenty-five. It’ll pass, I promise you; you’ll find your way. Sure wouldn’t it be worse if you were one of these super-focused freaks who decides their path at eighteen and never deviates from it and then end up frustrated, bitter and regretful at thirty-three compensating by drinking too much and buying designer pieces for their overpriced homes? This way is perfectly natural and so much healthier. This modern age affords us to be young for a lot longer. You haven’t calved or anything, you’re not married; the world is your oyster…well I don’t see it, however, I’ve always felt my septum is slightly deviated and none of my friends can see that either.’
‘Yes Jack, but then I realised that it’s what’s in the inside that’s the more important.’
‘Really? The inside eah? Interesting, maybe I should get some work done on my inside.’

‘That Danish girl Mal. She’s friskin’ for a bit of chow down, I’m telling ye’’.
‘Maybe if you get your finger outta your ass and stop lorrying booze into you, you just might score.’
‘You get your finger- well I spose your finger is clearly outta your ass- it always is. Why don’t you get your finger outta my ass and come over and talk to her? She’s friends with that plain- looking, bourgeois, Irish chick; you like those mousy types.’
‘Jack, you know perfectly well that plain chick was like my best friend in school.’
‘Oh yeah? Well maybe you should have had better best friends.’
‘She’s sound. You’ve met her loads of times before.’
‘Well, Mallory, I don’t care to remember before. Do you reckon she’s sound in bed?’
Had they thrown him out of the place after that? He was being obnoxious. Impossible; he wasn’t even that drunk at that stage.
He is afraid to look at his phone; he will have to, eventually. The hangover is starting to kick in now.
He goes to the toilet. He plonks himself down on the seat. His urine smells strong; the kind of smell that will fester in the fibres of the day. At first there’s gas; it ganks like rotted mutton; he’s thoroughly dead inside. He starts to defecate. He realises that some water has splashed up on his buttocks- gross! Maybe I should get some sani-wipes. That Italian girl at the function explained to him at great length the importance of bidets. A bidet would be a great idea. When was that anyway? Fairly early on. He wished she hadn’t been so open; talking about bodily functions had instantly demystified her. But in fairness, it is terrible that people don’t wash their asses after going for a number two.
He wipes, he checks it, why does he do that? That’s also gross. Black, very black; must be the red wine, and there’s a little blood. He wonders vaguely along with the million little thoughts that make up a hangover if he’d been raped- nah, that’s just crazy talk. Anything could have happened though. This thought scares him. He stands, eyeballs the bowl after him. You’d think they’d design a better toilet, like in The States; now there’s a country that takes its ****ting seriously: seat covers, anti-bacterial everything, toilets that flush in a splendid whirlpool right to the brim. Though the shape, he found, was a little weird; his penis always hung down and touched the porcelain- did that mean that American guys had smaller willies? Or maybe it was a foreskin thing. America- land of hope; germ free in every sense; maybe that was the place for Party Jack. He’d get arrested for D’n’D in about five seconds, though Colin Farell managed to avoid it. God, how many times had that nearly happened on his previous visits? If it wasn’t for Jack’s Irish ‘charm yourself out of jail free card’: passed out on Capitol Hill like some kinda Bob Dylan song, waking up in a boxing ring in West Virginia, mowing down wild ponies in Maryland, daring people to mug him in the subway. Best steer clear of the states in future.
He grabs a wad of toilet roll and grips the very top of his silver toilet brush, dips and scrubs and slathers bleach. Shame there’s no toilet brush for his life. He straightens up and slinks to the sink. He remembers to flush, goes back, presses the lever but forgets to put down the lid- off it goes. He turns and steps away then skids back over to the toilet and slams it down. The floral faecal fountain, it’s all over the bathroom, all over everything! The water won’t be hot for a shower because he forgot to set the heating timer.
At the sink the cathartic hock ‘n’ scuttle. He scrubs his hands like a surgeon, then his face- that splattering of prophetic lines round his ocular cavities; they splashed out of his lapping eyes and chased down the landscape of his face to join the rest- some deeper than others, depending on the expression, depending on the source. It is for this reason Party Jack feels a little ill at ease in God’s great daylight. He has always been sure the camera would love him though; people say it to him all the time- he possesses a certain Hollywood quality, but becoming an actor is so much effort and far too much poverty, not to mention rejection; he just isn’t good at those two things, quite out of the question. He will be no Pierce Brosnan when he is older, that is for sure. Perhaps he is right to get his kicks any way he can before he shrivels up like a rolling stone.
He turns the heating on. He’s ticked off he has to wait. He gives the unit the ‘up yours’ sign. In reality he is just stalling; he knows he has to check his phone, his messages, make a few calls, fill in the blanks.
He is certain apologies will be necessary, apologies are his one constant. I am so tired of swimming around and around these fish bowl nights. He will have to call Mallory and of course Lucca and Pina in Amnesty. They’ll administer forgiveness, bed his heart back down. Tell him he is crazy, that he’ll have to calm down. He’ll plead ignorance, insanity, he was on autopilot. It wasn’t him, but if it wasn’t, then who was it? This stranger; this horrible insatiable beast that he tried to fill up. Mallory often said it is as if he is possessed, like that little girl in The Exorcist, spewing green sludge at everyone around him. Why, why? Why does he keep doing it? He is fine when he drinks moderately, and it doesn’t happen every time he goes out. Most of the time he leaves the pub, club or party with everyone high-fiving him and inviting him to the next do, the girls all star struck wishing he’d take them home. He’ll get texts in the days that follow reminiscing about all the cool **** he said and did; telling him he is a legend. But he does have his falls from grace, when he has too many pre-dinks or drinks the wrong concoctions or continues on to a curry house or an after-party when by rights he should check himself out and go home. It is like an intermittent lapse every couple of months. He had to give up the pills and the coke and all the ‘mad-out-of-it’ friends who went with them; doctor’s orders, but with that he sacrificed his lucidity and he drinks harder than ever now- some kind of post mid-twenties spiral. He needs to. He never knows when to stop, when enough is enough. There is something kamikaze in him, and though he tries to fight it, he always loses, it always gets loose. He has so many great friends around him; something going on almost every night of the week if he feels like going out. He offended or embarrassed them all at some stage, but they forgave him. They tutted and laughed and said ‘No more for you Party Jack!’ But he knows that they think he is a bit of a psycho, however, they let it go. Why? How? What did he do this time? Has he finally succeeded in alienating them? He feels like a clown and self-loathing crawls all over his flesh. Call Mallory; this is killing you.
He comes back into the bedroom, the smell is horrendous. He goes to open the window only to realise that the digger outside is making too much noise. It crank starts a headache which pulsates and drips into his left eye and down the bridge of his nose. He has no Aspirin in the apartment and he is too afraid to go outside lest he meet someone who saw him last night. He never wants to leave this room. He just wants to hide away in here; hide and repent.
He flops onto his bed, it makes his head thump harder. He looks down at his feet to see that there’s a piece of toilet paper stuck to his big toe. He feels like he’s had toilet paper stuck to his life for a long time. What did he have in his life? His job? What’s to like about tech support and computer programming? He’s very good at it, well-paid, successful, upwardly mobile. No girl; they all either excited him sexually and bored the living pants off him, or they were great craic and physically repulsed him. He doesn’t have any hobbies or interests. He has been ****ing his life up so hard that now it feels raw. He realises that there’s nothing between the parties anymore; this disturbs him deeply.
Now, phone time. His hands tremble, he is sweating and dizzy. The symphony of regret is tuning up in the pit of his stomach. He tries to remember a thought that made him feel good, there was one earlier on, what was it? His mind feels crumpled.
He leans over, as he does so he feels something mushy. It’s brown. No, he couldn’t have. He takes the sheet between thumb and forefinger, lifting it up in terror. He discovers his kebab, smeared and greasy. The smell makes him gag. He gathers it up and runs to the window, opens it and ejects the soppy mess. The builders can deal with it. God, what a terrible sound that digger is making! He shuts the window resolutely and returns to the bathroom to wash his hands again. He pulls the sheet off the bed, bundles it and lobs it into a corner. He lies back down on the bed, momentarily contemplating the arctic cake icing ceiling. God he hates this part; he hates himself. To the messages.
His face hovers dreadfully over the phone. He sees the little envelope symbol flashing; no space for new messages. He picks it up, unlocks the keypad. He checks the first message: it’s a voicemail. He erases the report. Then it shows eight missed calls. His heart quakes. Slowly he checks the time and caller ID’s: 11:04 Boswell, 11:08 Boswell again; nothing out of the ordinary there, he never leaves messages and just wanted free wine. 11:45 Pina, 01:23 Mallory, 01:30 Mallory, 01:41 Lucca, 01:57 Pina, 02:43 Mallory. The last five are distressing. Half one, I was still at the party then, wasn’t I? He checks the voice message to find that he has received another. He erases this report and receives another. He dials 171. ‘You have one old voice message, you have three new voices messages.’ The old voice message sounds like a party; lots of background noise, then piano, then crooning. It is him, oh yeah! He got on the keys and sung ‘The thrill is gone.’ I’d totally forgotten about that. Man, all those chicks leaning doe-eyed on the piano. After a minute of this, which he admits to himself is pretty damn good, Pina’s voice comes over the music all slinky and seductive, ‘Que bello Jack del festa! I enjoy so much!’
Now he recalls, playing the piano, cracking witty jokes, basking in the gaze of all those swooning charity workers. The night was just starting to snake around him. He feels good for a second, the joy flits around inside him. Then the first new message comes- it’s Mallory.
‘What the **** Jack! Where the **** are you? What were you thinking? Jesus, you’re unbelievable! You such a psycho! Look, call me back when you get this.’
O’oh. He is dazed with worry. Oh ****. The next voice message: 02:43:
‘Jack where the **** are you? I’ve rung your landline and you’re not at home and I went by La Cave and The Porterhouses; they said there was no sign of you. Jesus, I hope you’re not passed out somewhere. You remember what happened the last time you did this. I’m not going in to Pearse Street Garda station to pick you up again. **** it, I’m calling them now. Just give us a call or send us a text when you get home just to let us know you’re okay. We’re all worried about ye’ Party Jack, y’loon. Do remember shouting at everyone? Do you remember what you were saying to that aul one? She’s the secretary general for Amnesty International Ireland Jack! I spose it was kinda funny.’
The last time? Oh that was bad. It was in February. They were at some intern doctors’ convention and Party Jack got all jacked up on free cheap champagne then verbally attacked a room full of young doctors about the mercenary nature of medicine. He was told that he held forth against about twenty of them for the best part of an hour then stormed out. He woke up in a police cell. They told him he’d actually fallen asleep on a cop car outside the station. ****ing capitalist swine doctors! At least I cared about them enough to offend them, to try to opened their eyes, or at least get them to admit to their towering hypocrisy.
Oh God, shouting at people; that doesn’t sound good. He tries to remember. An aul one. No, nothing. Shouting. He is a big shouty guy when he is drunk, but Mallory sounded so pissed off and Pina and Lucca hadn’t even left messages. Jesus, how was he going to face them? He knew them quite well, but not as well as Mallory. Would they let this go? He’d ring them. First Mallory- it rings and rings, but no answer, then he is through to his voicemail.
‘Hey Mal. Jesus, what the **** happened last night? Got your messages this morning. No recollection what so ever. I am so sorry if I embarrassed you. I don’t care about myself, but, I’m gonna call Pina and Lucca now. Talk to you later. Sorry again.’
It is weird that he let it ring into his voicemail; it was unlike him. This worries Party Jack. He tries Pina first- it rings for twenty seconds then cuts out, like she hung up. He tries again and just gets her voicemail. He doesn’t leave a message. He tries Lucca but he’s out of coverage or his phone is off or something. Party Jack is alone in the world with his questions, a prancing apocalypse in his brain. It is all a sickly predictable tragedy, a slapstick schadenfreude comedy. He just has to wait and stew.
He decides he’ll try to sleep for a while; he is feeling pretty drained after the morning’s commotion. He crumbles onto his coarse mattress; it pricks and stickles the skin on his back. He probably doesn’t have another clean sheet. He is all choppy and jittery, he has to focus on something other than this radioactive buzz foreboding inside. He tries to recall some gilded thing; something that will reassure him that there will be a glittering forever more after this trial; something to come home to when it releases him. But there’s nothing; nothing after this, nothing he hasn’t broken; nothing that isn’t tied in some way to this. Oh please God, if you just let me off this last time, I promise I’ll be a good boy. He’s ready to reform; not just to turn over a new leaf, but to plant a whole new tree. The image of a sapling growing into a vigorous Horse Chestnut tree quivering in the breeze at high summer is enough to distract him and he drifts into a febrile half- slumber. The dream comes quick; like when you dose off on a bus.
A hag stood looking up at him and though her face was horribly tatty and battered, she was not repulsive to him. This was on account of her eyes- lupine at first glance, then he realised just why they were so engaging; each one was looking at him differently. One was the eye of a sprightly, frisky, quirky nineteen-year-old, while the other bore the ironic burden of knowing. Seemingly they had been chatting for quite a while. He had an acute craving for intimacy and understanding; it always came with the sluggish drunk of boozing on top of a hangover. He felt this woman got him; a little too much.
‘…I suppose you’d call it the pitter-patter of eternity!’
She was guardedly amused, ‘You’re an interesting sort of a soul, aren’t you Jack?’
‘It’s certainly interesting that you should say ‘sort of soul’ because I have always thought that souls need rather a lot of sorting out; we’re not just one soul you see, we are many and multi-coloured. My friends always say that I’m pure soul, which I have never truly understood, or believed for that matter. It occurred to me some time ago that having a soul screams effort. Just the suggestion of a soul suffices; it’s mysterious and attractive. If you love someone less, then they love you more. So love someone never and forever more. Now this might strike you as a little sad and shallow. Anyway, I’m clearly I’m not a pure soul- no redemption for my mere suggestion.’
‘Redemption flounders for you in another bubbling glass, another crowded room, another humming bar, eah Jack?’
‘True, I’m a silly man most of the time, the rest of the time, I’m asleep.’
‘Always in rant or celebration. Keep your head about you Jack.’
‘Keep my head about me? Pashaw! I rarely even bring it out with me.’
‘Tread lightly Party Jack, tread lightly.’ She squinted searching at him, the stirrings of an ironic smile in the left corner of her leathery lips. Party Jack put his glass down rather deliberately, as he always did, with respect, not for his interlocutor, but for the drink. He didn’t like her penetration, though he couldn’t help being so forthright; it was the only way he knew to be and he assumed it was endearing. But this old woman had seen right through his half truths; she had nothing to lose or gain and so she engaged him. Plus she used him name too much- he hates that. He had to lighten things.
‘Gotta tow the party line while I still can.’
‘Youth flourishing in gin blossoms,’ she smiled and waited for a reaction which never came because Party Jack, ironically enough, didn’t know what gin blossoms were, so he gave a dismissive little swish of his hair and glanced round the room disaffectedly.
‘There’s a certain urgency to your joy Jack; like you’re playing catch-up on life. I used to be younger you know. I get it.’ She must be drunk as well to talk that way. Who the hell was she to analyse him? He decided to push the boat out a tad further.
‘Get it at your age, a little obscene, but how and ever.’
‘Come come Jack, you’re more than that; you’re obviously a class act, but after all acts there must be curtains. You can hear your curtain calling, can’t you? Your curtain call- I can see it in your eyes, I can read your mind.’
‘I can assure you- sorry what did you say your name was again?’
‘Dorothy.’
‘I can assure you, Dorothy, that if you were to read my mind, you’d find that it’s badly structured and full of the most appalling spelling mistakes.’ Was he actually flirting with this witherdy woman?
‘Everyone knows that correct spelling is frightfully lower-middle class and structure has no place in the post-modern era. But you seem to be bittering yourself up over something. Why all this? Why all this harking yourself round the party? Why do you try so hard? You’re not going to get this for quite some time-’
But it was too late; the mischievous devil was stretching and yawning in Party Jack. She continued talking. He fixed her with this beady gaze and made like he was listening. He affected this serene sort of a Mona Lisa smile. He nodded his head slightly.
She continued, ‘You remind me of my late husband actually. He used to be the life and soul of the party too and come out with aphorisms not unlike-’
Nodding and smiling serene and gazing beady, he slowly lifted his hands and left them hovering over his shoulders with his forefingers out at the ready. She looked at them momentarily perplexed, then went on undiscouraged, ‘“I have achieved little,” he used to spout, “since I left Oxford, but an-”’
Gazing beady and smiling serene, nodding like a Stepford wife, raising his hands and fingers slightly towards his ears.
‘“even more intense sense of bitterness!”’
Intensifying his beadiness…slowly, slowly, slowing- and…in they went: his fingers so purposefully into his ears- a gazin’, a smilin’, and a noddin’. She stopped dead. She was a little confused at first, perhaps even a little hurt. Then a laugh broke out all over foldy face as she got it.
Now, Party Jack should have taken his fingers out of his ears at that point and laughed along with her, but her prying had violated him; even if he had invited it. So he left them in saying slowly and unequivocally, ‘You are old and ****. And you don’t get it. Who do you think you are?’
Two of her colleagues who had been listening to their repartee with a mixture of dread and hopeful amusement stepped in.
‘Now listen here bucko!’
Party Jack knew that these were unadulterated humanists; their goodness seemed soft, so he laughed in their faces. ‘What are you gonna do? Organise a petition to stop me? You’re pathetic and weak and powerless and pointless!’ He didn’t know why but he had stepped back and was addressing the whole room, ‘You crusty foreigners and haloed wholesome head-the-balls, you’re so easily amused- living at 60%. I might flog the dead horse of the night, but at least I live at 100%. I could be dying for all I know. You’re all whores; whoring yourself for the good of humanity. Don’t you see the absurdity of it all? The nothingness? Haven’t you read Camus’ The Fall? I know. I know what you’re up to. The only reason you give so much is to make yourselves feel less guilty; not because you actually want to help those battered women on the walls, or those trapped innocents in South America or wherever. That’s what’s immoral. My heart of hearts is crying out lies, lies, lies and easy answers! You see, you need people like me! You need kamikazes to quicken your blood. What does that make me? A party whore?’
Mallory’s hand was on his shoulder and there was pleading in his ear. Party Jack stepped away from him and took the floor. ‘This party’s a sinking ship of fools anyway. Enough arsing around. I’m out of here!’
Just then he was taken with a paroxysm of sneezing. He bent over holding a table with one hand, bucking. Mallory came over again, stretched his arms around Party Jack and held him. When the fit subsided he shook Mallory off crying, ‘Let me go!’
He straightened up and affected a staggering pirouette round the room, looking at their faces; horrible grimaces, shaking heads, pathetic charity in Pina’s velvet eyes, shock and stagnation- dead pan, no sound. He twirled and twirled. ‘This yellow pack epic. ****ty little nothings. You are nothing; nothing without me and nothing to me!’ He clasped his hands together and rang out all the aching misunderstanding of the human soul, right down to the last drop which dripped from his left eye. He pushed past Mallory, past everyone and careered out the door.

Party Jack’s eyes are open, wet and wandering the arctic cake icing ceiling; he marvels at its vast wasteland. The nightmare is already slipping away, but the shards are left in is warbling heart. No morning-after manifesto is going to cure this one.
There’s a beep from the kitchen; his coffee machine timer. It starts up, it sounds like a fiery dragon waiting for him. Tread lightly Party Jack. Nothingness. Nothing. 100%. A demon. Christ, who could have done such a thing, said such things? And to those utterly good people, who have sacrificed so much for others, who live so selflessly, with such tender humanity. How is he going to make this better? He will contribute more money; get more involved in campaigns and stuff. They’ll let him if he promises not to drink.
Party Jack suspicions that it’s the drink that’s staining him, drowning the good in him, swamping him with an evil. But maybe it’s actually just him, who he is- he is that despicable at his core. Maybe he is just a human **** and a **** human. He has to be. But then again it could just be one of the darker colours in his rainbow soul? But why does he feel a different shade this morning? Which colour dominates? There is a piercing ring over the guttural rattling digger outside; why is there always an alarm going off somewhere in suburbia?
Why in God’s name does he do it? Fill himself so full of that stuff. Most people his age do it to a greater or lesser degree, but what makes him drive and wallow so much deeper? Is reality so suffering for him that he must dash to the respiting legions of alcohol at every chance? He loves the abandon of partying, the masquerade, the flowing tides of drivel, the naked sincerity, the electric courtly dalliance. But then there was something in him that hated the kings and queens and pushed him to force himself out of the court’s favour. Like they’d somehow figured out that the jester really japed his audience.
There surely must be something else worth living for.
His friends: he has so many and they all love him so much; they are always going on and on about how he is so vital, a pure soul, the light in the night, the life of the party, everyone’s Horatio. He is usually too pissed and wrapped up in himself to really notice how cool they are. The boisterous hung-over breakfast- he loves it more than the night out. If they forgive him, next time he’ll look them in the face, everything and all remembered- Christ the realisation, the love- it’s precious, it’s beautiful. Spell it. How do you spell it? Party Jack closes his burning eyes.
There is a text beep, his little heart turns over. He terribly takes his phone in hand. It’s from Boswell.
‘Heard about you last night, ya lunatic! Good work. Your presence is cordially requested at a scum sucking lawyers do tonight. Meetin in The Morgan at ninish to get loaded- or is that tanked up?’

shiv

This is quite possibly one of the most fascinating things I have read on boards. I don't usually have much of an attention span, but I must say once I started this I had to read until the end. I didn't take any offence either (although there were some unnecessary tangents into bodily functions me thinks). Was quite taken with Party Jack and the overall use of language and metaphors especially. Well done.

Jack Quinn

I'm cyber-scarlet. Tnx. What's the emoticon for a coy titter giggle?

shiv

Jack Quinn wrote:

I'm cyber-scarlet. Tnx. What's the emoticon for a coy titter giggle?

You're welcome. Feedback is king. I'm not sure that emoticon exists exactly (why don't you invent it and patent it?), but perhaps you could incorporate it into your next piece in some form?

TerrorFirmer

It certainly is very interesting. This one is better then your other post involving the same character, although in my opinion this one is far superior.

That said, they are both excellent.

Jack Quinn

Tnx

dublinario

That's exceptionally good Jack. I'd have that in short story competitions if I were you.

Blush_01

I really... is enjoyed the right word? Well, whatever, I was totally sucked in by this. It's not often that I'll bother reading something more than a few paragraphs long here.

Things occurred to me as I read it, but I can't remember what they were.

Top class!

Knee-Vee

Wow. That was a fantastic read, keep up the good work!

Shad0r

I enjoyed it, however, spacing out the paragraphs would have made it easier to read.