Revelry blossomed in his wake the way flowers bloomed in the steps of spring. He would not be surprised if someone could follow the dancing, drinking, and merriment right to him. He sipped from his ever present glass of intoxicant. The color, strength, and variety changed, but the effect never did. Not anymore. He’d tried leaving the glass, but he just got another. He snorted. For awhile, it had been fantastic. Never thinking, always drinking, pleasant company, roaring laughs, the occasional brawl, noise, and an utter lack of tomorrows. However numb, news still trickled in from the outside informing those who did and did not care that the world still spun. Eventually it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he should take a look at the world outside of a bottle.
The bottle disagreed. It had been a new argument. He would go somewhere, and like ants to a picnic, the revelers came as well.
He stopped enjoying. At the center of the fun, no longer flirting, laughing, or brawling, just watching everyone else. Watched the patterns and realized how little anything mattered. So he returned to drinking and watching and thinking because it seemed like too much effort to move from his wine barrel throne to interrupt anything. When he did finally decide to go for a walk about, it did not take more than a few hours before the old party caught up, or a new one started and the drink was back in his hand.
Maybe the world had ended and he’d missed it. If this was limbo, he certainly would have missed the transition. He traveled around, spreading nights of foolery and mornings of shame thither and yon. People forgot his name. Drink didn’t drown him. He was never alone or quiet.
Finally he decided he wouldn’t inflict this unending merriment on the unwilling. He knew it too well. If people wanted to forget, enjoy, indulge, they knew where to find him. Back where it began. “Drink up me hearties, yo ho.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank it dry.