IV
Dale's eyes flashed open. His head was still flaming from the alcohol. He raised his arm and touched his face. It was ice-cold. He grimaced as his spine popped as he shifted his body from a supine position to a sitting one. He felt the bench vibrate, only to find out a couple of seconds later that it was his own heartbeat. Dale lowered his head and almost immediately could feel the throbbing at the back of his head. Note to self: Never, ever get drunk in the park at night. Dale tried as best as he could to remember the cause to his sudden wakeness. It was a shout, wasn't it?
No. It was something louder.
A bang.
A gunshot.
Yeah, more likely a gunshot.
Dale shrugged off this ridiculous assumption(since it was almost impossible for a citizen of Deadwood Town to actually own a real gun) and got up. He struggled as he pushed against the handles of the bench. He straightened his vertebrae and led out what seemed to be an awkward bray. Dale was startled at his own verbal expression and immediately thought of Donkey from The Shrek. Somehow, at the back of his head, almost vaguely, he could hear Donkey's voice. "And in the morning, I'm making waffles!"
Somehow, that made Dale grin.
Dale shambled towards town. All he knew was that he needed company.
He needed reassurance.
Most importantly, he needed food.
Donkey's random yet enlightening quote about waffles reminded Dale that he hasn't eaten anything ever since last night's supper. Well, except for that bottle of Pulteney.
Dale clenched his tummy as he felt the sharp, agonizing stab from the alcohol he consumed earlier. That would be my last bottle, he promised.
But that was a covenant he made all too often to himself.
Unfortunately it fails, every single time.
After all, as what Seneca says, "drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness."
You don't say, Seneca, Dale thought. You don't say.
