Chapter 3. Prodigal

"Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!"

Somehow, despite my previous expectations, the screams are like music to my ears. I suppose anything other than "please, I don't deserve this, don't! Don't! Please!" would be an improvement. Plus the fact that I've never in my life been around so many people who think that I am this fucking awesome. That's golden.

My first official night of freedom from the depths of Hell (literally) and there's already a crowd surrounding me in celebration. Of what is inconsequential, mostly because I haven't the slightest idea. The important thing to remember here is... it feels good.

It's hot with excitement from newly discovered territory. Sweet like intrigue. And just a touch of satisfied wanderlust - wanderlust that I finally followed through with.

I can't honestly say that I understand the human race, nor will I ever attempt to because why bother? But I have come to understand that they will find any reason to drink themselves stupid on any given day. And I like it.

The booming joyfulness sounds from all corners of the bar as I down yet another one of their alcoholic beverages of choice - tequila.

This is my tenth, tonight.

And it tastes... okay, I guess. I'm not sure how it's supposed to affect me personally, but it appears to make the humans in this establishment lose all sense of inhibition. The men take full advantage of the women, the women take advantage of the men. I'm neutral as to which is worse, but I will say, it's all within reason. There's a large man posted at the entrance of the bar who ensures this.

I've witnessed his wrath. Trust me.

He'd do well in the underworld - I've already made a mental note of him. I toast to it, unbeknownst to my newfound drunken acquaintances. It does nothing for me, by the way. The tequila, sadly, but more directly, the aggressive humans.

Nothing I haven't seen before. Although not in this context, I'll admit.

I'm about to entertain the mass of people surrounding me with yet another shot when there's an unforgiving pounding behind my ears that is not only painful, but deafening. To me, at least.

It's a combination of low, joint aching vibrations, the thunderous booms that accompany a bad storm with a smidge of knife slicing through my skin. That I can disregard, but the high pitched torture I like to call a whine of some sort, that one is getting to me.

I suppose it was only a matter of time before my absence was noticed. I did think I'd have a bit longer before the search parties were set loose, however. No one here seems to notice, and I envy them because I know what's coming if I continue to ignore the warning. Don't get me wrong, I'm going to ignore it, but it will be unbearable soon.

"Hey Boss." The large man who guards the heathens nudges me. I nearly forgot who I'm supposed to be.

I regroup successfully.

"What is it?" I holler over the masses.

"T-minus four," he tells me, then slips away to his post, once again.

T-minus four? What is that? Some sort of algebraic equation I'm responsible for solving?

Maybe this is Hell.

Whatever it is, it's quickly forgotten when the next tiny glass of alcohol is handed to me. I swallow in hopes that maybe this one will affect me. And yes, I feel a slight, unexpected chill go down my spine as I drink. I'm elated. Hopeful. Until, that is, I realize that it's not from the tequila.

My short-lived celebration is gone, just like that.

I scan the crowd and feel it hovering; taunting me.

The chill, it seems, is coming from a group of particularly loud, obnoxious humans that are currently descending from another floor of the bar. I barely have time to contemplate why any of them would affect me in any way whatsoever until the troublesome noise begins again.

Pound. pound. pound.

Screeeeeeech.

"Fuck." I rub at the back of my neck where the incessant annoyance echoing through it just got worse.

"Drink! Drink! Drink!"

I'm handed a double shot glass this time and I happily empty it in one fell swoop. I wait, and wait... and I am rewarded with the slightest sensation. Finally.

There's a tightness in my jaw this time. A warmth in my chest. Then that chill again.

"What the f-"

Pound. Pound. Pound. Screeeeeeech!

"Jesus Christ, okay!" I throw the glass across the room and the blurting out of my family's nemesis surprises not only myself, but the group of drunks around me as well. They take a step back and there's a faint look of horror on some of their faces as though they've just seen a ghost.

Or perhaps Hades.

So I calm my temper and then I smile. Because it's not nice to frighten the poor defenseless humans. Luckily, they're drunk enough, or perhaps high enough, to not have realized what they've just seen was real. Otherwise this night may have been cut very short.

"Drinks are on me," I tell the bartender, cool as ice. I need to handle this situation.

"How many?" She asks, seemingly astounded at the instructions I've just given her.

"All of them." I give her a wave as I stalk away to find some privacy. About the only option I have is outside, so I find the exit. As I head for the door I nearly trample a small framed woman who clearly has no sense of watching where the fuck she's going.

"Watch the -"

Screeeeeeeech! Pound!

"Fuck."

"I could say the same for you, buddy," she growls at me as though this is my fault. And yet, she's grinning, ear to ear. Bubbly, but not in a drunken stupor sort of way like the rest of the people here. It stops me cold and confuses me. Is this woman happy or angry? Pick one, for the love of Satan.

I'm about to give her some advice on her tactics with regards to conflict when I notice what she's wearing. I'll be polite and neglect to mention that either she was not aware of the dress code here or she ignored it by wearing something that covered every inch of her body, from the combat boots on her feet, to the baggy jeans, to the long-sleeved hoodie and oh, don't get me started on the baseball cap. Could she at least have the decency to celebrate an athletic team instead of some sort of supernatural fandom?

Okay, I guess I wasn't polite after all.

And also...

"Do you really need all of these handbags?" I ask her, annoyed. I don't know why it should bother me. She's of no consequence. However, I was under the impression that the standard day-to-day, personal carry around baggage had a one-per-person ratio here. Why I know this, I couldn't tell you. It's just an observation I've made. My mind is a treasure trove of useless knowledge. Something that comes from existing as long as I have, I suppose.

No such current knowledge of such a bizarre multi-tote carrying creature like this one, however, which amuses me a little.

"Oh," she says with a short, mystifying sort of laugh and hoists one of the bags back up over her shoulder. "Designated driver." She lifts her hands as though to mockingly celebrate something and waves them, palm outward, at me. "Yay."

She blows some hair out of her face, revealing a small scar at the corner of her left eye. And then it's gone again.

She's absolutely ridiculous.

And yet. The chill. It's…

POUND.

POUND.

POUND.

Scccccccccrrrrrrr….eeeeeeeeeeeeeecch.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

It's only then that I realize I'm now on my knees from the pain behind my ears. I look up at her, but I'm unable to hear the next words out of her mouth. The sound inside my head is much louder than she could ever be. The screech has turned into something more like a large, god-sized poker being dragged across a stone floor and then set on fire before stabbing me in the eye.

I let out a snarl and leave the bizarre little woman who doesn't know her own feelings to go find out why in Hell my brother is being such a dick.

PSA: Infinite thanks for reading, for Sue's beta mastery, and for Chrisann. If you're following the music (and my brain) - it's Tequila by The Champs. Duh. But look for the Vinnie Maniscalco Remix version.