Table 15

Chapter 8

A/N: Please drink responsibly; don't drink if you are underage. This chapter has a lot of curse words and suggestive humor.

"And lost both my shoes in the mud!" I said with a chuckle. Mark threw his head back in laughter, grabbing the kitchen table to steady himself. After I totally kicked his ass in an arm-wrestling competition, and bandaged the wounds I had accidentally inflicted, Mark and I had a couple beers. Well...more than a couple.

Mark held up his index finger, catching his breath, and staggered over to the freezer. "Dude," he said as he rumaged through it before holding up a bottle. "Fireball," he stated. He pulled out a shot glass from the cupboard above the sink. He poured the cinnamon whiskey into the tiny glass.

He offered some to me, but I shook my head. He shrugged, and tipped his head back. He swallowed the shot, shook it off, and grinned. He muscled back a burp. "I once took 5 of these," he said, starting to slur his words. "And then I beat Fuck Nights and FredBoys," he said.

I laughed, "You mean Five Night's at Fuckboy's?" I asked, wiping my eyes of the joy filled tears. I finished off my beer. That's the last one for me. Mark chuckled and started to pour another shot, but I stopped him.

"Hey man, I hate to be a Debby Downer, but you are drunk as hell right now," I said awkwardly. I took the bottle from his hand and screwed the cap back on.

Mark held up his hands to surrender, "I getcha. Ol' Jackaboy is looking after me," he said with a smile. He went to sit down on one of the kitchen stools. However, he missed it and fell hard on his ass.

I couldn't help it. I roared with laughter. I could hear Mark laughing like crazy from the other side of the table. I stumbled around to help him up.

Once he was up, we walked over to the couch and sat down. Mark looked over at me and grinned. He's brown eyes sparkled with a drunken sense of humor.

I'm an Irishman, so I know my alcohol limits. And I fucking meet that limit tonight. But Mark? I'm pretty sure he went over. Waaaay over.

"Mark, you are so wrecked right now," I said, laughing slightly. Mark laughed again, but a little harder this time.

"Y-you know what," he started, squeezing in words between his drunken laughter, "w-what else I a-am?" He asked. I shook my head and shrugged. Mark beamed awkwardly.

"I'm not just w-wrecked. I-I'm erect," he said. He burst out laughing, even harder then before, at his own dumb joke. And I, being as drunk as I am, laughed with him. "God damnit Mark," I said when I calmed down. I shook my head, but I was still smiling.

Mark ran his hand awkwardly through his black hair. "Floof the hair for power!" He shouted. I chuckled. He was always so stupid when he was drunk; he'll laugh at anything. He has no mental filter when he's like this. What he thinks, he says.

"Let's play a game," he blurted out. I shrugged, "Which one? Minecraft?" I said sarcastically. He shook his head, chuckling.

"No, l-let's play um...," he said, trying to think. He sprawled himself out on the couch, laying his head down on the arm of the couch, and his legs on my lap. I felt my face growing warm. Now that I think of it, it's really warm in here. I took of my sweatshirt and threw it over the back of the couch.