Disgusting, Vile and Awful

The party throbbed like a dull ache-loud, obnoxious, a migraine with bass. His peers' voices rose in a chant-'Pass it here, you're hogging it!' The words grated like nails on a chalkboard, far from the camaraderie they pretended to be.

Tord's social battery was shot. Maybe it was the last rip of a bong, or the dawning realisation that despite the crowded room and tipsy girls asking to hear what swear words sounded like in Norwegian, it felt lonely. Every smell of spilt booze, bump of another body or couple kissing in Tord's way drove him dangerously close to puking or punting something.

Actually, punching someone sounded like a fantastic idea. Where the hell was Tom?