Chapter XII. Salvation & Salute
In the bedroom, Frollo took out the Bible lying in his chest pocket, put it on the desk and turned to Psalm 51. An envelope was attached to the pages, and "To Whom It May Concern" was written on it. Frollo opened it and pulled a half-dollar-sized dog tag from the inside.
There were some lines on the dog tag:
"PHOEBUS
de CHÂTEAUPERS
1802-226-1482
A POS
NO PREFERENCE"
His finger paused on the engraved lines on the dog tag. The jealous rage was not as burning as it had been after he pulled the trigger, only guilt and regret left to fill his chest. He didn't know how long it would take for the teams in Iraq to identify more information from the remaining, as the young man's uniform burned into ashes and his dog tag in Frollo's hands.
It would forever be his cross to bear. The young man's lifeless face with a hole between his eyebrows would forever be his ghost. Claude Frollo never escaped from that boundless and bare desert in Iraq.
He held his palms together, a tear falling from his chin, and he breathed the prayer from Psalm 51: "Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love..."
He then stopped his prayer and glazed the empty bed next to him. After dinner, Jafar said he wanted some drink to wash down the fried chicken-not those wines though, as he would like to stay sober when editing today's montage. So he went out for some soda.
Oh God, am I still guilty in your eyes and what should I do to repent?
Frollo suppressed his urge to cry out loud, to the point that all those voices in his throat became hisses. He wiped his eyes with the sleeves and put the dog tag back to the envelope, and the envelope back to the Bible.
Oh, wine. If blood alcohol centration was over 0.4%, a man is at risk of coma and death from respiratory arrest.
Frollo picked up the Bible and let it slide back into his chest pocket, stepping toward the kitchen. He brought three bottles of wine from the wine cabinet and a golden goblet to the living room. He had done the mental arithmetic-the right amount of required wines for a male of his weight to end his life was 2100 millilitres, which would be 150 millilitres shy of three whole bottles.
Because Jafar was an alcoholic, he also had measured that a full goblet of wine was 150 millilitres. 14 goblets to go.
Frollo poured the scarlet liquours into the golden goblet, listening to the ripple of the blood-colour stream. He then raised the goblet and looked at Hades' YouTuber rewards medal. As shiny as the casing was, Frollo could still recall the blood stain of his own on the golden surface.
"To living," Frollo muttered and gestured, then gulped down the whole goblet. 13 goblets to go.
Frollo could never understand the appeal of drowning himself in alcohol. He drank them merely to blend into the crowd on social occasions. Alcohol could not numb him as he seemed to have obscure high alcohol tolerance.
"To you." letting his thoughts bring him back to the past, Frollo poured, gestured to Hades' medal, and drank. 12 goblets to go.
He found his unbeatable alcohol tolerance during a drinking content in his youth. After a few cups of beer, his opponents sequentially succumbed to the power of alcohol. They either spitted out more secrets in their filthy minds, cried out suddenly, or just kneeled and vomited.
"To Jafar." 11 goblets to go.
Not Frollo, as he was perfectly sober after rounds and rounds of beers, standing upon every contestant as a sole survivor, tall and proud. No one dared to ask Frollo for a drinking contest afterwards though.
"To my sin and my grave sin." 10 goblets to go.
He looked up the term "blood alcohol centration (BAC)" as he knew everything could be a toxicant if overdosed. A set of numbers followed by a list of symptoms-he calculated it and in that drinking contest, his BAC was at around 0.23%.
"To the judgement of the Lord." 9 goblets to go.
Frollo still remembered. In the textbook, the symptoms following the number "0.2~0.24%" were: Gross disorientation to time and place, increased nausea and vomiting, may need assistance to stand or walk, impervious to pain, blackout likely.
"To the mercy of me..." 8 goblets to go.
But all Frollo felt under such BAC was nothing! For safety, he still called the taxi home after the drinking contest, but Frollo still remembered every scene outside the windows on his way home-it was a rainy day in Paris, the streets were dimly lit, and there were few to no pedestrians.
"To the mercy of him." 7 goblets to go.
-Oh, is this my end? I am halfway through this, but my conscience is still clear. Is this my suffering? Is this my living hell before it all ended?
6 goblets to go, and Frollo felt his stomach filled with liquids.
-Did I choose what I deserved as my punishment since it is much worse than a bullet to the head? Oh, I deserved it, as I am the sinner, the apostate, the assassin. 5 goblets to go.
-After about ten cups of wine, my BAC should reach 0.3%: "All mental, physical, and sensory functions are severely impaired, accidents very likely, little comprehension, may pass out suddenly", I remembered it all from the handbook. What an irony as I still could recall any fragment of memory like a veteran librarian with his shelves of books. 4 goblets to go.
-I could somehow hear the yelling and crying of Jafar in my ears. But why? Jafar had only entered my life for merely 4...or 5 months. He ain't the ghost haunting me, but that shiny, golden boy...that bastard named Phoebus is the face keeping me awake in the death of night. 3 goblets to go.
-But I do want to see Jafar make amend with Hades...I do...they haven't drawn a gun and pointed at each other in a boundless desert...there's still some space for reparation, it was not too late-he is not me. 2 goblets to go.
"FROLLO! STOP NOW! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
...Why is Jafar's face right in my eyesight? Oh, I probably died before 14 goblets. It was merely a phantom with Jafar's voice and form.
"Frollo, hold on...just hold on...I...I will call the ambulance, just STAY STILL!"
Hearing Jafar's desperate yell, Frollo found himself lying on his side, watching Jafar rushing to the phone. He could still see two empty bottles rolling on the ground, and his vision slowly blacked out.
The light of the ward formed a halo behind Jafar, as he sat next to Frollo's bed.
"You finally wake up, you old fool..." Jafar murmured before he rushed to find a doctor near the ward. Frollo wanted to raise his hand to block the dazzling light, but he realized that his arms were restricted by cannulas in his veins.
-Wait, the envelope.
Frollo's hand instinctively delved into his chest pocket, only to discover the absence of the Bible. The mere thought that the envelope could be exposed troubled him deeply. He sought Jafar's answer, but the man was still preoccupied with finding a doctor.
A doctor accompanied Jafar and came to Frollo's bed. The doctor just asked about Frollo's drinking habits and how he felt now. Then the doctor said "Take some rest and you may leave in the morning" and left.
"...Jafar," after ensuring the doctor had a distance from the ward via the window, Frollo whispered, "Where is the Bible? The one in my chest pocket..."
"Oh god...I don't know..." Jafar facepalmed and shook his head, "They didn't remove your clothes but rolled up your sleeves, that's for sure. We can find your stupid Bible after we go home."
"...I am sorry." Frollo's face fell.
"Ok, from now on, I need to SHUT your mouth, shhh," Jafar placed his elegant, long index finger on his lips, "I don't know why you suddenly decided to drink the whole two bottles, I am not sure who gave this idea, I don't even know you could drink that much. But as alcoholic as I am, I at least know alcohol qualifies as a kind of drug."
Frollo lowered his line of sight in shame-at least Jafar would rather read the emotion in his eyes as shame.
"Look, man, I might not be an upstanding citizen and what I will say next is definitely hypocritical of me, but promise me that you will never drink that amount of wine. It is expensive and it can kill, what are you thinking? Don't reply as I am just throwing whatever I want to say in your face. You fool, you bozo, you absolute madman." Jafar uttered in disappointment. He couldn't decode the man next to him that was Claude Frollo-his eyes, his actions, nor his thoughts.
After getting things out of his chest, all Jafar got was Frollo's weak, silent nod.
"Just promise me, love yourself as who you are," Jafar sighed and covered the quilt for Frollo, "And next time if you need a drinking companion, just call me."