Vodquila

"I feel very sheranaded, thank you." I told Damascus. Still blushing, like a schoolgirl all aflutter.

Heavens preserve my reputation as a formidable gentleman, I prayed, for apparently, I cannot.

As Schadel and Edward watched the way that the game of truth and dare was going, they were both starting to regret their decision to join in. Schadel fiddled with her cross - what if she did truth, and they asked her something that she couldn't answer? And what if they did dare, and they asked her to do something like that? She couldn't handle either one of them.

She took a nervous sip of her vodquila.

God, she wished she could be really drunk right now, because then she wouldn't be so anxious about whenever her round would be.

Edward, meanwhile, was very intent on saying truth - he was sober enough to know that any dare he tried doing while drunk would be the type of thing he'd regret for the rest of his life, and, seeing that he was a ghost, that would be quite the long period of time.

"Eneh teim." Damascus nodded, patting Boris' shoulder clumsily, and then proceeded to hunt for some more water.

Spotting a pitcher-full, he leaned over the counter to grab it. Seeing no cups in close range, he lifted the pitcher to his mouth and drank greedily, a fair amount of the cool water missing his mouth and running down his chin to wet his suit.

James continued to sulk as the spectacle went on and came to a close. Kratzer ruined the fun. Wilson, however, was living.

She clapped, gathering their attention. "Yes, yes, wonderful job Damascus. A perfectly executed dare, might I say so myself." She gave Damascus a small bow, before turning to Schadel.

"Well, looks like its your turn, Schadel. I hope you're ready to choose: truth? Or dare!"

Edward gave a quiet little cheer from beside her.

She gave a slightly upset look in his direction before turning back to the bartender. Taking a deep, shaky breath, she hesitantly replied with, "...Truth?"

Damascus leaned past Boris to better see Schadel, who seemed to be very nervous in her decision of Truth. He meant to reassure her, but instead voiced his own thoughts.

"Whatehre you afrehd of rev- revehl- revehlih- uh, sharin'?" He got out, unaware that this in itself counted for the game.

Schadel tensed. It took a second for the question to register with Edward, but, when it had, he also tensed. There was only one answer to that question, and both knew what that answer was. She took a very, very large swig of her drink - completely emptying it - and tried to think of what way she could avoid revealing too much.

But nothing came to mind.

She asked for another drink - she was going to need it, after this - and gave the simple truth.

"I'm afraid of revealing that I'm a grim reaper," she said.

"Oh." Damascus worried his lip. "Well, I alreadeh knehw tha'."

He glanced around at the others, trying to figure out who else already knew this information. Unfortunately, swinging his head back and forth only made him dizzy. Nearly avoiding falling off his stool, he reached out to steady himself- and clutched James' shoulder.

When the wave of vertigo passed, he glanced over at where he had set his hand and instantly recoiled.

"No, t- tha' wash an accshidenteh! I- I didn' mehan tah break our pr- omish!" He fought back sudden tears and stared intently at James. "ah- pl- pleash fuhgive me."

Wilson poured Schadel another drink, sliding it across the bar.

Meanwhile James was about to say he didn't know or care what a grim reaper was, until Damascus grabbed his shoulder, nearly throwing him off balance. James grabbed onto the bar to steady himself, and Damascus. He slowly looked over at the teary-eyed man when he recoiled.

"'S fine," he muttered gruffly. "Don' worry about it." He looked over to Schadel. "Both of you."

I gazed at Schadel blearily, squinting in disbelief.

"Grim...Reaper. What did you even choose truth fer? Shweet bloody Chrisht, you're not nearly as drunk as, as I am, you can come up with shomething better'n that.

Anyway, I choose...truth. While I'm shtill drunk enough to tell it. I'll show ye how itsh done."

"Nein she really ish," Kratzer slurs. "Serioushleh."

"Oh, oh, okay uh," James started, looking over to Boris. "What's uh... what'sh something that makesh you happey, fhriend?"

"Neinneinnein," Kratzer said, shaking his head. "Zat's a terrible queshtion, itsh too easheh! Borish, what's yer biggesht regret?"

Damascus nodded solemnly at James, scrubbing a hand over his face to compose himself. Listening intently to the questions asked of Boris, he found that he wanted to hear the answers to both.

"Ooh- do both!" He interjected impulsively, "I- I mehan... if yah comfroatableh with iteh."

"Pleashe. I've nothing to, to hide, I'm the mosht, I'm the comfortablesht." I said suavely.

Poor, sweet Damascus. He had no idea just how prepared I was for this.
When inebriated, heavily inebriated, I would go into this bizarre and dangerous state of zealous, compulsive honesty.
Not just simple honesty, a desire, a need, almost, to tell anyone unfortunate enough to be in my company everything they never wanted to know.
The past few minutes alone had propelled me far beyond that threshold, and on top of that, I now had a lovely excuse to make a nuisance of myself.

"Ach. Biggesht regret... I've done a lot of foolish thingsh. Too many to choose from. I'm anshering the other one firsht.

Theresh a lot of things that make me happy. The majority of which are completely legal." I said, refuting nobody.

"Ravensh, ciphersh, poetry, petty vengeance... romance novelsh. I read a many of those, all the time. Fer example, there was the one about the...."

I ended up losing my place and forgetting where I was multiple times, but I believe that I was raving incoherently about romantic comedies for at least six minutes. Someone looked like they were about to interrupt. I shouted at them.

"Sit down! You let me shtart the bloody story, and I'm going to finish it, goddamn you."

Miraculously, I found my place, and resumed my clumsy, passionate tirade.

"And in conclusion, Viola ish a bloody saint, and, and, she's a good woman and she deservesh so much better than that ruddy coxcomb swine of a duke, and he doeshn't desherve her, and it's a shtupid play, and I hate it, and I go to it every ruddy time that they show it, but it'sh still better than the, the, the Venice, Chrisht Almighty, I swear, Basshiano is the bloody worsht, he'sh an idiot, he'sh not worth it, and Portia deservesh better, and he should be bloody grateful becaush he'sh a shtupid rake, and why did poor Viola have to fall for such a ruddy, son of a hedgetrimmer, rake of a coxcomb, she'sh a shmart woman, and she'sh got a good heart, and, in, conclusion! ....I swear I was going somewhere with, with thish."

I almost concluded my conclusion, but alas, I did not find my way back again.
The subject was lost. I mourned it for a second, until I remembered that I had another question to answer.

"As for my greatesht regret...I'd say deserting the army, and my country, leaving my family in their time of grief. That would have to be the stupidesht thing I've ever done. But you know, we've all been young, once.

Oh. And the time I screwed that conshtables' sishter. That washn't my finesht moment, either."

A silence hung in the air, weighing upon me like the most unwelcome of visitors. I let it hang there for another minute or so.

"... Wilshon, I need some more gin."