“Soooooo… youu headingggg (hiccup) backkk… todaayyyyyeee *weeeeeeee*?” he said in his drunky, sloppy way, suddenly spinning around as he spoke, almost toppling over. Typical for the morning. By afternoon he’d be popping the pills, becoming less slurry as the drug fueled words popped back out of his mouth more in staccato form, with consonants and vowels left out, soon to progress into whole words and even phrases and sentences. Word salad they become in effect, not slurry but just as incomprehensible and useless.
“Yup,” she uttered, coming onboard and up the stairs to directly face him. She wanted to know what he was drinking, wanted to smell it on his breath. Because she might need some too. Given what she was potentially facing today.
Vodka. And not a hint of vermouth to change it into her normal. She’d have to pass, pure being too strong for her liking.
“Well,” she said as he stumbles and falls. “Get to piloting… Cpt.”
“Right right right. Heading back, right. Riiiight *weeeeee*.” Another fall.
“You know — never mind. I’ll do it myself. Been there enough lately.” Still on the ground. “Yes, you just rest, Philip. It *is* still Philip? Right?”
“Right right (hiccup)… right,” he repeats, and then falls asleep on the spot, pills in his mouth as soon as he becomes conscious again at 12:01.
(to be continued)
Sunklands 