fairynuff | Drink up, me hearties

THE DRUNK MEME

1. Drinking Games: You're at that special level of drunkenness where previously unimagined things start to sound like a good idea. You know, like another drink. It's cool, I know this great game that will inevitably end with everyone involved being totally wasted. You play until... shit, what were the rules again?

2. Unsolicited Advice: Oh man, you suddenly know the solutions to all of life's mysteries. All it took to figure it all out was half a pint of whiskey! It's time to tell all your friends how to fix the problems with their personal lives, whether they want you to or not.

3. Drunk Texting: Frankly, you can't IMAGINE why anyone wouldn't want to hear about how drunk you are right now. If only you could remember where the vowels are on this tiny keyboard. Drawing inspiration from TFLN is encouraged.

4. Tell Them How You Really Feel: You lost some of your less important inhibitions three or four drinks ago, and it's time to tell it how it is! Hunt down the person you love, or possibly the person you hate, or even just the person you don't literally just met, and bare your heart to them in a way that you'll almost definitely regret tomorrow morning.

5. Karaoke: Shot through the heart, and you're to blame! You give love... a bad... something...

6. Terrible Ideas: This is going to be so awesome, guys. I've got the skateboard, and I'm handcuffed to Steve... is the camera rolling? And who's lighting the fireworks?

7. Flirting: While all that booze may not have enhanced your charm, it certainly did wonders for your ego! Time to find all the hottest dudes and/or chicks in this place and make them swoon before your gin-powered charisma.

8. On the Streets: What better way to follow up a good bar run than by drunkenly wandering the streets in the middle of the night? There may be loud, embarrassing singing. There may be puking in the gutter. You may be completely lost, and not sure why that police officer is speaking Italian.

9. The Next Day: All that you took with you from last night's adventures was a blur of jumbled, confusing memories, a lampshade with googly eyes drawn on it taped to your head, and a brutal hangover. What exactly happened here? And who's that sleeping next to you?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Harry is super cautious about getting drunk, but he's also a serious lightweight.

Life is hard. /sob, sob. ]

[Tiny umbrellas. How have they procured them? A royal boon? By happy chance at the Station? Who knows.

The Brucolac flicks the one that's in his glass, moving slightly sluggishly through blood. (The umbrella is yellow. To contrast.) Then he takes a sip.]

You're right. [Deadpan.] It is more relaxing this way. By a, mm. 25% margin, at least. [You are 25% drunk, Brucolac.] Probably some low-level thaumaturgy.

[Plucking out the umbrella and licking the stick, don't mind him.]

[Don't think too hard about the umbrellas; that way lies madness.]

You see? I might not know much, but I am entirely sure of this. They're even better when they come with fruit-onna-stick.

[Which Harry's drink has. Sure, he could try and be suitably rough and tumble, find the local equivalent to firewhiskey, or he could have some ridiculous, tropical thing in a coconut with a stick of fruit. It's only fair - if the Brucolac is having a drink and a snack, so should Harry. Isn't that what you're supposed to do after giving blood?]

[Yes. That is exactly right. Well done.]

There's a bar in Thee-and-Thine—at home—where they do that with olives and shrimp and fish eyes.

[He stirs his blood with the umbrella stick, a sentence that should never have been written.]

I think we lag behind when it comes to mixoturgy.

[That. Is a made-up word.]

Y'know, I'd probably give it a try. Even if it is mixoturgically behind.

[Harry contemplates whatever sort of fruit is actually on the stick and upon realizing that he doesn't recognize all of it, shrugs and eats it anyway.]

I've always been pretty agreeable when it comes to food. So long as it's not moving, I feel that it's fair game. If it is moving, I'll ...well, I'll probably still consider it.

That was exactly how I was.

[Slurp.]

Didn't kill me. Talk to Vol'jin; troll knows his seafood. [Yeah, the huge tusked guy. He's got some great recipes.]

"He's clever." Harry sort of gives the Brucolac a bit of a sideways look before speaking, "Back home, we've got blood candy. Next boon we get, maybe you'll get some. S'not bad. Very, ah, minerally."

"Blood. Candy." The Brucolac sits there, frowning gently, tapping his fingers on the tall glass of Harry's blood, which—he's growingly realised—he has underestimated. Apparently, wizards are about 30% proof. After a few meditative moments of hard staring, he concludes: "Your world is batshit insane, isn't it?" A pause. "Does it dissolve, or do you chew it, or—what?"

"Some of each. Suckers are the popular thing, but I believe there's filled chocolates." Which are both entertaining and sort of horrific. Harry can't really stomach the taste of chocolate any more, but he appreciates that others might crave it.

"The blood candy isn't even close to the strangest thing, so I suppose, yes, 'batshit' covers it."

"Suckers." He sounds vaguely fascinated. "Novel. They revoltingly appealing."

He plucks his umbrella from his drink again for further inspection. This whole pointy-end business is, hm. "Do you think—" Stop right there, Brucolac, before you say something involving small umbrellas and jugular veins. He actually has the decency to look faintly embarrassed. Though more of a wrong company embarrassment than a wrong idea kind. "Never mind, perhaps."

Harry laughs and it's a bright, easy action that shows off his own teeth. "I can see where you're going with this, but I think that as far as I can manage is to tuck one behind an ear. It'd be very tropical, or at least, tropical on my world."

"Novelty straws though, you could try that. Curly ones." He gestures and pulls up a little glowing image of what he's thinking of.

He can't help but snicker, a low crackling sound in the back of his throat like paper being crumpled, brow furrowing in bewildered delight. "That," he says, "is the most undignified, unhappy thing I have ever seen. Work has gone into those straws. Someone woke up one morning thinking that what the world needed more of was curly straws. Actual people have been employed to make them." Shaking his head. "There's a sadness about them, Harry, which I will not spoil my meals with." He raises his glass. "Speaking of which—" hey, Harry seems fairly un-squicked by the whole blood thing, and so this is fine to say, really "—you're delicious, thank you."

"I try to eat my greens." Which means what, Harry? That you're nutritious? Possibly. Or maybe it just means that after blast-ended skrewts and flobberworms, there's very little that really can make his stomach heave.

(Ugh, *flobberworms*.)

"And I promise that I will never let anyone stab me with a curly-straw. Never again. I've learned my lesson," he says solemnly while turning and lifting his shirt just high enough that a pale little circle is visible on his ribs. "My cousin was a real git."

Drink up, me hearties

Harry Potter and the Drinks with Fancy Umbrellas

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