Part of whatever filled his being was floundering through the roaring sea of regret.

In silence, he believed, he turned his face away from the one person who needed him most. But why should have Slinkman cared?

When he spoke up, he did so with the intention of helping his boss out of his normally depressed state. But was that the real reason he did what he did?

Now, instead of sitting alone as he always did in his room and hugging his Mr. Squishy plush doll during a rainy day, he attention was focused on the gas meter and the hand on the mph meter as well. In truth he was staring out at the road, going beneath the bus as trees great and small passed from his point of reference pass the bus on either side. Although, he wasn't paying attention to the trees, or rocks, bushes, all that adorns nature. What he noticed from looking up in the top mirror was his boss sitting in a sit just behind him. In silence. But something didn't seem right.

Lumpus sat there, but he wasn't paying attention to Slinkman, probably because he didn't realize Slinkman took glances up to watch him. He knew he was watching him, but it, this was different. His only focus was diverted to his chin resting on his arm on the windowsill, while his eyes traced the movements of the trees. He wondered to himself, what was he doing existing? He knew it was a dumb question, but he couldn't help but start to wonder this when he started feeling sad. He wasn't tired; he was wide-awake, but sad.

Slinkman turned away. Why should he care about someone who constanly barks orders at him, never says thanks or sorry, or would deliberately strangle another being, mostly Slinkman, without thinking for the welfare of others? Because, no matter how much he hated admitting it, he was a total sap for people in need. It was one of the many unfortunate characteristics of being a slug without a backbone, though they had none to begin with. He couldn't just turn even someone as mean-hearted as Algonquin C. Lumpus away when he was clearly in need. If you were in a situation where you had no choice but to help the least likely person on the planet, the one who detested you so much, who detested others with what he had not, what would you have done? The answer was obvious.

He thought to himself this question, but it didn't give an answer; it instead opened the path towards more questions and query, conundrums. It was too confusing. But he thought deeper. Could there really have been something that contrives itself as an answer? Do all things that point to a truth only coax awaiting queries in shadows, such that are better left answered? Would it bring a truth, or a lie? If the truth is something one can't accept, then will it turn into lies? What could the threads, the theories, so many of them woven together, beget at the center where they meet? Does truth lead only to lies, while lies only point to a truth? When that answer created goes one way, would it disprove all other theories, the most likely theories, proving they were nothing more than lies?

If Slinkman kept going on like this, then he'd doubtless lose concentration on steering the bus. He pushed any thoughts only a philosopher could decipher and glanced at the time above the gas meter. It was 7:00. He had at least $30, enough to spend on a couple of drinks at the both renown and infamous of bar in Prickly Pines, The Earth's Blessing. He had a very angry grimace on his face; who in the hell could pull off naming a bar where slothful, immoral things happen, like drinking, swearing, and even stripping? But then, there were other bars out there that had oddly similar and exact opposite titles and aliases. The one they were headed to was no different. He thought about this, and then he also remembered an event some weeks ago, where Lumpus lost Jelly Bean Cabin in a restaurant, and despite his suggestions, Lumpus denied common sense to go back there. Instead, they ended up trying to enter a bar where there were, in his opinion, at least 60 burly, brawny, inebriated western-stereotypical men playing cards or rousing trouble. They, that is to say, Lumpus and Slinkman instantly brewed up trouble by just stepping inside and asking about Jelly Cabin, but they retreated afterwards, only to suddenly subject their selves to a VERY humiliating endeavor to get back into the restaurant. It was Lumpus's fault in the first place for trying to attempt to a successful 'dine and dash' right in the sort of place where little kids could get lost, or even hurt.

In any case, they were headed towards that very same bar with the very contrary name. But they didn't have anything to worry about, since on rainy days, a majority of the townsfolk, including tough looking fellows were holed up in their homes, watching news, sleeping, watching sitcoms, comedies, sports, or eating. No one really took rainy days as important unless they were working, or worked very far away; so one would happen to see a man or woman with an umbrella headed towards their own specified destination, and it was commonplace.

"Slinkman, are we there yet?" Lumpus asked in scowling form to the slug driving the bus. Because he already had his hands tied in decelerating the speed of the bus as it they entered the narrow streets of the town, it took Slinkman a minute before he could take to forming an answer. Wiser words he couldn't use, knowing that Lumpus probably wouldn't understand. But something needed to be said; he wasn't sure why it had to have been a hassle to think of something to say, but then, when dealing with someone like Scoutmaster Lumpus, there was no one easy way to go about it.

"Almost there, sir," Slinkman had his foot close to the break, since they were already only a few blocks from their point of arrival. He stopped the bus, then turned off the ignition, and opened the door agitatedly fumbling with his keys. Lumpus followed without a word. They were standing just outside the entrance.

Raining. It was still raining. Why wouldn't it stop raining? He angrily thought this in his mind. Things, no, they weren't things! He knew. He knew that they were feelings. But what did they represent to him now? Now wasn't the right time or place for this. Though through his whole life he was taught to give a 'hoot' and be ever vigilant and thoughtful on whatever rigid ordeal he faced, today, today he'd cast aside his dull natural order of working things out to the wayside, and just... enjoy himself (For a split second, he felt a lot like Lumpus). To hell with common sense. For once, he realized, being an adult really did have its advantages. He was no kid, kiddies. Whoever heard of a kid, let alone a kid with eyestalks and a banana colored tail driving all the way to get a drink?

As they stepped inside, the very first thing Slinkman noticed right away was the foul stench parading the closed vacuum of space hanging in the ceiling. He remembered at a young age, how his mom often told him that smoking was bad; he remembered his years spanning between graduations from Junior high to graduation from Galloping Gastropod University. Smoking as he recalled, could kill people, since it had the alluring, yet devastating chemical component Nicotine sealed inside the narrow tube. While he ended up staying drug-free through the rest of his time in high school, one of his closest friends, the first he ever made didn't.

Very few, like the skeptical, tough-looking, moody, dangerous types were seated at the various tables nearly close the corners of the dismal-colored establishment. But they were looking drousy, almost too drunken to actually notice their presence headed for the seats near the tall wine shelves.

Lumpus stole the opportunity to casually take a seat, Slinkman following his action. They certainly had taken to the quick pace of things. Then again, as they were residents of a southern-backwater area like Prickly Pines in the south, it was no foreign thing for them to get the uptake. It was impossible not to, if you lived long enough in hick counties. After what seemed like an eternity, the bartender, which was a male pitch-black color furred cat, dark as soot, with no definite age. But what Slinkman noticed was the nametag on his apron that read, "Bractselk". Probably a very complicated and rather nautical Dutch last name, he thought.

Though Dutch as from what Slinkman could tell, his voice seemed like that of a New Yorker. "So what can I douse for yas' gentleske type folk?" he asked them in his helpful, foreign-to-country accent, but as Lumpus wheeled around to meet his attention, they both noticed his hands were pretty busy with cleaning out a delicate, ornery glass cup. Still, the moose, not the slug took the nature of this encounter by a more serious, though not properly done note.

"Oh uh, yeah, a couple of drinks, on the rocks, my good bartender," was the good-natured answer from the docile moose.

Instead of a nod, he did receive a 'yes sir', in addition to making a pointing gesture with his hand at Algonquin's hat. He understood and took it off, not wasting a moment. Then the bartender, Bractselk went about his business. He turned his head just before he started to ask, "Uh, what type youse want, gentlemen?"

"I'll uh, take the special," answered Lumpus.

"You got a low speed reserve?" asked Slinkman.

"You got it," Bractselk said to Lumpus, and turned to Slinkman to inquire further as his hands were expertly at meticulously handling the caskets. "How low speed cha want it?" Slinkman would've answered but then he was abruptly cut off when the bartender said, "Oh yeah, I get it. Yeah, most folks like youse can't take it through." He spoke to him this, not nastily, but more good-naturedly than most folks who'd just said something out of spite just to get a response. "Hmm, yeah. Dully noted," Slinkman said with a smile as he returned the response. Bractselk gave the return smile and continued his work. Of course, throughout the minor exchange of dialogue, he was already well finished with drink he prepared for Lumpus and just started on Slinkman's. Slinkman thought as he walked over to hand the drink out, that this old cat must have had spent many of years running the place, and had grown more experienced and familiar with the common tasks his job entailed.

There was an old-fashioned T.V. with wood paneling, sitting on a platform at the left ceiling corner of the room. On the screen were sports, though, Slinkman didn't take any interest in that. A myriad of players moving about on the screen as the camera tracks their movements; it wasn't as interesting to watch so Slinkman diverted his attention away from the screen. There was music. He heard it when they first came inside. From what he could tell, Lumpus heard it too. Though in a place like this, no really cares about what music plays and talks about, only if fits the mood and atmosphere of their surroundings.

But he didn't think on it for long when Bractselk came by and handed the slug his drink. In turn, Slinkman pulled out a wallet and produced $40 (It was the very first time in 5 years that he actually had enough to pay for something he was buying for both himself and Lumpus). While Bractselk wouldn't have accepted this until they prepared to leave, it was too good of an offer to pass up. The sum was definitely enough for at least 2 more drinks. They would be here for a while so he gave Slinkman a rather thankful smile before retreating back to the storage room, which was in truth, his private lounge. He out of the kindness of his heart set up 2 more drinks on the other end let one or two of them they finish off their firsts.

The old slug picked his up and started sipping some down.

About a few minutes later he finished off a little more, feeling the inebriation taking hold. But he kept doing this at a slow pace. Still, he noticed his thoughts weren't spinning out of place. He kept his hold on a few more seconds of trained thought as his face flushed, shades of red slightly becoming visible. It was true, he thought, he almost felt giddy when exposed to alcohol, though this was the sort, that he found out later, would not make one go deliriously happy, but deliriously trapped in a vast array of moody emotions.

He wasn't even sure how it happened, but his head sank low in the cradle of his arms whimpering. He felt dizzy. He felt like he almost couldn't lift his head up, heck, he almost forgot his surroundings, like the chair he sat in, and the moose who sat in the seat right next to him. Wait… moose who sat in seat right next to him… Lumpus.

He lifted his head shakily to turn around, because the intoxicating aftereffects of the wine he sipped; when he Lumpus focused in his view, he halted mid-preparation. A spectrum of mixed emotions clouded his thinking space, albeit to a sudden, and strange need to hug him more close than a friend should. It didn't, in his mind, feel as unnatural than stepping into a swamp.

He couldn't form words right now to describe what he felt that moment. But what were words, which they only speak the things and thoughts that are important, leaving out the notes, queries, and recordings that our minds create and hold on to that prove as lesser importance? The cup; he finished it. Slinkman was only half done with his. Lumpus couldn't hear him now. But then again, Slinkman was feeling tired, almost needy and… where did 'need' fit in that equation? But tiredness was about as common with delusion and deliriousness, common aftereffects of drinking. He made a slight moan in his woozy haze.

"Uh, um… uh… ooohh, uuuuuhh, mm…. Lumpus?" No answer. The T.V., and the music were still on, still playing. But while he was drunk, Slinkman seemed to have completely forgotten that they even existed. The way he was now, in his world, the only thing that were there were Lumpus and the counter where their drinks sat; but to Slinkman, it didn't look as much like a counter, in his twisted reality it looked similar to a strained longitudinal waves bouncing with two indistinguishable objects bouncing at the wave's crest. He croaked his name again. Still no answer.

He groaned again, placing his hand on his forehead to stop the painful swelling in his mind from growing out of control. Why couldn't Lumpus hear him? was being drunk really a hindrance? And, it got really, really hot in there. So hot he imagined sweat the size of bricks slipping down his slick surfaced skin.

Oh, how it felt weird. With some difficulty he tried getting up, but ended up dropping off his seat and hitting the floor. The pain he felt when he slammed on the floor was nothing compared to the odd headache he was experiencing. He felt so tired… so very, very tired. He didn't complain now, for out of the corner of his eye someone was picking him up and caressing his hot, faint frame. That felt weird. The face of his captor was truly… Slinkman? But the one held in his arms went by that same name. This… wasn't… it… couldn't be… happening.

Before he could have mentally noted his suddenly and terribly quick immersing into "someplace else", he lost he ability to think.

"Uhhhh… Ooooh," he quivered, moaning, and it almost sounded like his the volume was amplified by a hundred fold; it resembled an echo, and it creped him out. Blurs, circular shapes, triangular, irregular patterns, hazes pointing in jagged constructions, abnormal luminescent objects floating in his head. Sounds were no better, something, whatever it was, cast a shadow, and it made a sound like a broken record, deliberately and suddenly as he mixed them, increasing and decreasing pitches that he had to put his hands to his partly visible ears, and he really believed that he was going to go mad! But was it not his fault? He chose to do this, and to his dismay, anything could happen. He felt almost naked to the scary, undiscernibly magnitude that was reality on a much, much different scale. That hurt. But what hurt? He felt more than lightheaded. He wanted to scream. He couldn't see anything that made even the smallest glimmer of sense; twisted, how could he see? He looked at his hands, for they seemed to vanish. No, they suddenly looked white. Numbers floating by, and the sky tinted pink like flowers, looked like flowers! When would the madness stop? He was falling down, down, down. He had the insane and senseless urge to bite the hand that… no, the phrase didn't apply to him now, because he wasn't some baby! But in that 2 dimensional realm, it hurt to think. It hurt to breathe. It hurt, it hurt so bad, that he felt he could never get up. When would it stop? Why did he feel strangely comfortable? Even now, he didn't recognize Lumpus.

By the time Lumpus realized it, he hit rock bottom when he finished his own drink, unaware of how immense the strength of that day's 'special' was. His eyes were running with blood soaked veins, tears, but everything around him suddenly felt absolutely, significant. All around him, it was like he was swimming in the sea of some rainbow. His own demented reality altered by the nausea-toxic drink was equivalent matching to Slinkman's. But much earlier, What Slinkman didn't notice, was that Lumpus already finished his first drink, and he had finished his second in the time it took him to; it wasn't as surprising, considering that he had a big mouth. He fell into the high state at a quicker rate than Slinkman did, which accounted for why he didn't hear Slinkman calling him to begin with. But being the self-conceited moose he was, he thought (what he was able to) that he needn't bothered with unimportant things like listening to some ding-dong, always-right, meddling voice that sounded too familiar to be called a 'figment of his imagination'. His world, dreary, dark, and foreboding, consisted of what he dreams were made of; they had pointy, cruel jagged rocks, stone-cold mountains, ravenous anthills, thralls of demons spawning from the darkest depths of hell, fire, hell flames, superior bursts of lava suddenly spewing straight upward, colliding with the gassy carbon-dioxide contaminated atmosphere, much like on the planet Venus, that and, oh, to his greatest joy, his three most unfavorite (He knew that wasn't a word, believe it or not, he is stupid, but not completely) campers, the three from Jelly Cabin, impaled on dark tridents, blood dripping with a tinkling sound. You can imagine the true nature of the exuberant joy he felt when that appeared before his eyes. But… in the midst of all what happened, he heard a strange sound, foreign, sending a bone-chilling wind up his spine. He was preparing to scream, because it was the most horrible sound he ever heard. He felt like he was going to have a seizure, probably he'd faint. But seizures, they come, they go, they only give you that fleeting moment of relief, the sort that is given to certain people. The fainting never came, so why did he set his hopes so high? In the double entrée of that word, he was already 'high' to begin with.

Behind his back, he heard as distant sound with varying low pitch, a loud thud that echoed in his ear. In his world, everything that was a composition to his happiness, a euphoria that so filled his cold body, with warmth to the bone suddenly fell to pieces, crumbled, and succumbed to oblivion. That which was his sanctuary of ignorance, no, an imagination, a creation born of ignorance crashed, and that was left to his world was him a miserable moose who almost touched that which couldn't be grasped: the concept of death. But it didn't matter, all he wanted to know was why, and how, and what, and who. He was still too drunk to understand how it happened. But someone, he ascertained, someone out there in the wild, wild, west (now, his imagination became really screwed up) needed his help and it was time to 'ride' out to their aid. In his mind, that's how he randomly pictured that scenario; but he too, suddenly fell down into a void. It wasn't dark. But there was no light. He couldn't describe it if he wanted to. I myself, as I write this, could not have described it either.

But he felt it right there. There in that light that wasn't light, and world enshrouded in darkness that wasn't truly enshrouded in darkness, for no reason did he want to reach out to someone and hold them tightly. To make that darkness that wasn't there but was go away. May all other things go. Fly, fly, fly, Fly away, went his cry. Would Lumpus hold it there? He held the hand of a certain somebody. Somebody. So irritating; he loved, but he didn't know whom he loved! Then, a vague image of someone, a woman looked dingy and faded and it instantly vanished, cruelly laughing in his face. Well then, fuck you! fuck you! He thought in his head, the first words he could form. Now, he had no more feelings towards that one thing. He was free! But was he happy? No, he was mad! He was mad, but also happy! But he couldn't be either of these things, for he felt sadness. He was sad because, because he had no one to love. So confused he was, but then, the world of Romance was in itself a puzzle that couldn't be solved, a war that you couldn't figure out, a random stroke of luck in gambling that precious few were able to get. He knew he had no one to love. To hold. To reach out and touch tenderly. To grab in his hairy arms, though in his deluded state, he couldn't have held anyone, or remembered whom he held. But it didn't matter. Ah! But he should continue, it needs to continue, grow. To protect… to…To… to…

He staggered out of his in-between world, barely. Barely, it is a good word that should be used, for none other brings a smile to one's face; I say, one says, they say, who says it's a good word, for Lumpus was still intoxicated. He had his arm around his own friend, the one who stood by his side those many days. Like ghosts they floundered out of there, unnoticed, though he managed to choke out a thank you to… and drat, he forgot the bartender's name. He never felt so angry. This was way different than the anger he always felt for Lazlo, he noticed. It was different. But it was a sort that felt righteous. The music faded away as they both staggered out. Then he stopped, giving whomever the chance he needed to scrutinize their surroundings. Then he heard him speak. Though he wouldn't have cared even if he were given some championship trophy for learning how to listen, the voice befitted an angel (Keep in mind that, he was still drunk). But this angel had eyestalks as tall as his shoulders, a banana colored tail, and a neckerchief embellishing his dull tan-colored ensemble. His face, flushed nonetheless but so beautiful as it almost matched his. But where were the wings? Maybe, as a wild thought, this was a fallen angel. A little too extreme of an alias for someone like Slinkman, as he recalled as the one he carried out, but it seemed sweet to Lumpus anyway. Unable to actually understand what Slinkman had just said, something about… Slinkman driving, but- bah! How that could wait, Lumpus had as an afterthought. He didn't fully recognize Slinkman. This angelic being with broken wings, singing broken songs, it looked sad. It needed to be kissed. It was the only focused thought that Lumpus had all that evening.

Less inebriated now, Slinkman felt a sign of relief when a smile almost went to his face. Their trek completed, and Lumpus definitely looking a lot like any memory of his last trip was gone, and now… well, Slinkman wasn't sure of the now, beyond just getting in the bus and headed back to camp. He was feeling lightly inebriated, so he knew of course that he wouldn't have much problem driving back. Lumpus was a much different case, because two drinks, not one, can several odd aftereffects. For example, what Slinkman unexpectedly heard as he helped his boss get back on the bus:

"You're beautiful."

"Huh?" He really didn't see that coming. He stared at him when he was only halfway at the final step into the bus. He must have heard him wrong, right? he didn't say (and he almost gulped hard) he's beautiful, that was crazy! He wanted to ask him again.

"What did you say, Scoutmaster Lumpus?"

An awkward pause followed with an equally awkward sentence. "Slinkman, you know that I love you right?" his eyes twitched uncontrollable. Still at a loss, with disturbing memories of that same sentence used on Parents day flooding back, he decided to not answer the question. He casually stepped to the drivers seat after mindfully getting Lumpus to seat, all the while jarring any of his strange questions and drunken inquiries.

But on the road back things got gradually worse. Lumpus kept sneaking up and cuddling him. Slinkman tried ignoring him, or at the very least, pushed him back.

"Slinkman, tell me you love me."

He didn't say anything.

"Slinkman, please?"

He wasn't really sure if this was Scoutmaster Lumpus, but it was, and he was still drunk.

"Sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinkmaaaaaaaaaan," he groaned his name in a long, agonized sigh, "C'mon, tell that you love me! I love you, why can't you love me back?"

When will the damn inebriation wear off? He thought, still mindful of his personal space being invaded. Never had Slinkman been so regretful about that night; Lumpus cuddled him as he was driving, forcing him to feel incredibly, uncomfortable. He was glad that his drunkenness wore off, for he could concentrate on the road and nothing else. It hurt, so hurt to watch that man really lose it all, because of two drinks. He'd have no memory of that evening, which made Slinkman joyful…

… and sad.

Sir…I…

And since he'd have no memory of that evening, maybe it was time. The words, those three delightful words wanted to escape his mouth now. The feelings he had returned, and at the single worst possible time in Slinkman's life. He gave credit to Lumpus, he had forced his feelings right in the open. So, what was so worse about this moment? It mattered to him. What mattered to him was right here and now.

"Sir…" he started. He didn't pay any attention to him, but his eyes targeted the road. They were only seconds from Camp Kidney. Before long, the gate entrance came. The bus slowed then stopped just in front of the Scoutmaster's Cabin. He got up, and expected to see Lumpus grasping him. But he had a really unexpected surprise- Lumpus dropped on the floor, sprawled out in the most peculiar way that was really unusual, and falling asleep.

"Oh, I guess it could wait," said he. But truthfully enough, he couldn't. He leaned down hoping to snatch the last precious moments he was far from logic. Lumpus was still awake, as he discovered, but barely. He noticed his presence. When the other looked deep into their eyes some awkward happened. Slinkman started to pull away, but he got the idea that Slinkman deliberately leaned down to get a kiss. But Slinkman was thinking it could not happen. This was unbeknownst to Lumpus. He grabbed the back of Slinkman's head and pulled him down, giving Slinkman a surprisingly desperate, warm, passionate kiss.

So horrible, so horrible…but…it feels so good, warm.

He moaned deeply as he pulled him close. Slinkman wasn't even sure what happened; but he was sure that he tasted the alcohol in his breath, mixed in with the graze of hot, deep passion his boss offered. So long he waited, and now, he wouldn't hide his feelings anymore. Perhaps, what Slinkman wanted, what he truly needed to tell him, couldn't have been expressed in words. Lumpus sat up, his arms wrapped around Slinkman's waist. They breathed quiet moans in their locked embrace. His hand touched the slick skin softly basking in joy he so wanted to express. He had found the being he lovingly wanted to protect. Oh, how he would treasure that moment forever. But forever seemed to shorten, since in an instant, he suddenly broke the kiss and fell backwards, finally falling asleep.

As he started to snore, Slinkman looked on his boss, remembering how tenderly he touched his cheek, and blushing still, and grinning. But his joy crashed to Earth when he realized that when Lumpus woke up, the drunkenness would wear off and he wouldn't remember a thing.

Still, the end of that evening really turned out better than Slinkman realized.

-----

An hour later found Slinkman getting that same moose he was making out with on the floor of the bus up to his room. He regretted having to take upon himself such a difficult task; what did Lumpus weigh, about 200 pounds? He ate a lot more than he could chew. What an amazing man. But he didn't mind it at all. It was typical he should be like that, and he wasn't supposed to order what he could or could not eat.

He laid him a typical sleeping position on his bed when they came up to his room. Then he made a hastened exit for the door. He didn't look behind for even one second because he really needed some time alone. At last, to his relief, he got to his room. And he pulled out his Mr. Squishy from under the sheets on his bed. As laid there, he tried looking back on everything that happened that evening. He couldn't remember and it baffled him in a strange way. But after what happened on the bus…

Tomorrow, maybe he'd get a chance to think things over.

But after everything else, he found his head hurt and passed out.