The girls left us. Not so quickly that we couldn’t follow, but it was very much two groups as they surfed down to the nearest town underneath the thunderstorm. We didn’t even know the name of the place, or even what state. We just wanted to go to the bar and get hammered. And for that, we had Jack to thank. He bought.
“I love you guys,” he slurred.
“I hate you, too,” I said, and laughed.
Kate belched her reply, “Fuck you both.” That was a thoroughly impressive feat.
Nat held her head like she was nursing a hangover, but she was a lightweight, mostly tapping out after her first bottle of Jack Daniels. “Maybe you three should slow down.”
“Nonsense!” Jack yelled at the top of his lungs, “I have the mebatolism of a thing with a high mebatolism.
“You’re wasted,” I laughed. “It’s not mebatolism, it’s mebatolism.”
“What I said!”
“No, not mebatolism, metalobism. No, wait. That’s not right.”
“Melobotomism,” Kate said.
“Yeah!” I pointed, spilling half my bourbon. “No!”
“I’m telling you it’s mebatolism,” Jack insisted.
“No, it’s meta. It’s very meta,” I said.
“You’re meta!” Jack punched me in the arm. “Anyway, my mebatolism won’t let me get drunk. ‘Cept, I might have to go puke.”
“Rum, please.” Nat said.
“We’re out of rum,” the bartender said.
“Why is the rum gone!” we all yelled.