The fifth beer always gets me in the lungs.” Paul says on top of a swiveling neck.

     “The lungs?” asked Rake, trying to look seriously interested. A drunk smile crept onto his face and Paul thought he looked young again for a moment.

     “After I’ve had a few… you know…like... my tongue goes spelunking into the fumes of the ale, man.”

     Rake stares at him with bewildered amusement.

     "The permeating affect..." Paul emphasizes with a sharp spray of spit, the consumed alchohol steals his thought—“every process is coated… I don’t feel human anymore… like… I’m the host for the beer! It’s alive now that I've drank its tainted soul.”

     He unexpectedly stabs the neck of the  empty bottle into his throat and pretends to shake involuntarily like he’s being  attacked. He rolls his eyes back and plops out his tongue. Rake laughs. Paul is his best friend.

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