Emerging from the Deep Mire
Feeling a strange sense of liberation, as if I'd clawed my way out of some deep, muddy swamp, I opened my eyes to find myself sprawled out in my prison-like room, same as always. My throat was scratchy all the way down from not drinking enough water, and as I hauled myself up, my eyes caught the smartphone lying alone on the floor. The screen was half-shattered, sparking a fleeting pang of regret, but I shook it off quick. Who gives a shit about a cracked phone screen? Still, out of habit, I tapped the touchpad, and when it didn't power on, I panicked a bit. It finally hit me that the battery was dead, and I smacked my forehead. Fucking booze, always the problem. Whether it was company dinners or client schmoozing, I was always the one looking after everyone till the end. Lately, though, I'd been blacking out more often. There was nothing left to babysit but myself, and my bank account had enough for a year or two of living like a bum without a care. So yeah, cutting loose like a wild colt on the bottle was only natural.
"Ughhh... can't even remember how much I drank last night."
At my usual hoop pub, I'd pounded maybe five 500ml draft beers? Or was it someone's head with a beer mug? The tangled mess of memories only made my headache worse, so I shook my head lightly. I hadn't checked the time yet, but judging by the red sunset bleeding through the window, it was probably around 5 or 6 p.m. Sleeping away the day after gorging like the world was ending—pure paradise for a regular office drone, impossible to dream of.
Before boiling up some hangover ramen, I flung open the fridge to wet my whistle—and bam, a stench hit me square in the nose without warning. I clamped it shut.
"Kek! Cough! Kekek!!"
It flashed me back to my first CBRN drill in the army; I whipped my head away. My body was dried out like parched earth in a drought—no tears or snot should come out—but surprisingly, they poured.
"Fuck, seriously... what the hell."
Peering into the stink-spewing fridge with my nose pinched, every half-ass wrapped food was rotting. Chicken legs and chunks gnawed bare and tossed in haphazardly, kimchi jar left open, leftover convenience store kimbap, bread, moldy milk. All of it.
"Jesus fuck. Was I always this sloppy blackout drunk?"
Obviously, hammered me had stopped everywhere on the way home for snacks, scarfed some down, and shoved the rest in without a thought. I grabbed the one intact water bottle that looked okay and slammed the door. Later, dump it all in a food waste bag and toss.
"Gulp gulp... haa!"
Plain old cool water tasting this sweet? Like finding an oasis in the desert, I chugged a 1.5-liter bottle in one go. They say booze plus salty food drains your hydration bad—and damn if it wasn't true. But one bottle wasn't enough; I fished a lukewarm one from the box stacked in the living room corner. I order in bulk monthly, so they're piled high.
"Gulp gulp gulp gulp gulp."
Downed another, and finally the thirst eased. Belly full of water, fatigue washed away, I hit the bathroom and stood before the sink. As expected, days of living like a beast looked rough even to me. My neat office-worker hair was a greasy, tangled mess; beard patchy like a black forest. No fatigue, yet dark circles streamed down like rivers under my eyes. My dull gaze stared back empty, nothing to grasp.
"Gotta party like a human at least..."
To snap myself alert, I doused my head with cold water, scrubbed down. Finished with a shave, clean-cut in the mirror—but those eyes stayed murky. Eye drops with glitter? Felt off. Primped up, stepped out; sun dipping low, night creeping in. Ramen now seemed bland, so I geared up to go out.
Hot gukbap with a shot of soju? Or Chinese course with jukyeopcheong?
Way better than my half-assed seafood ramen. Stepping out, crisp autumn wind hit. They say fall turns men romantic whether they like it or not; I kinda enjoyed my thin jacket flapping as I strolled. Bus to the bustling streets? Subway food crawl? Or run wild like a maniac again? Indoors, I'd craved warm grub and light drinks—but one gust of chilly night air flipped the script. Mood swings like reeds, I thought, but nah, just my freshly unemployed high spirits running rampant.
Ended up at a basement bar in some know-it-if-you-know-it shopping arcade. One of my go-to spots for wining high-and-mighty clients who dig upscale vibes—scouted hard. Folks hear "cocktail bar" and picture young hotties hunting over colorful drinks, but hidden spots like this? Nah, fewer of those. Quiet, settled air; soft-glow lights; mellow tunes soothing body and soul. Nicely put: adult café (booze edition) for fancy hobbyists. Bluntly: dive for gloomy weirdos.
Down the stairs to the underground arcade, pushed open the bar door—usual vibe welcomed me. But unusually dead. Just two black-clad guys at the bar counter. Too awkward to bail now, so I took a distant seat and called the bartender.
"Something light to eat, and a mojito to cleanse the palate."
The bartender, wiping glasses, approached stone-faced and glanced at the two guys opposite.
"Ah, don't mind us. We're not the type to bitch if someone's grub ruins the booze buzz in the same bar."
Ah, worried food smells might harsh their mellow. My bad for not asking first. Realizing my rudeness, I nodded their way too. The guy I pegged at 50s, thin-framed glasses, eyed me then turned to the young dude beside him.
Ten minutes later: golden toast, eggs, bacon—classic Western—plus mojito. I wolfed it down like wind hiding flea eyes, rinsed with tart-sweet mojito. The subtle sweetness and sharp booze tingled my tongue, proper craving kicking in.
Next, an adult drink: Black Russian? Calling the bartender—then a bubbling churn in my gut.
Greasy food and booze on empty stomach? Body's weak. I didn't raise you like this.
"One more Black Russian."
Simple recipe—vodka and Kahlúa only—harsher and more direct than Kahlúa milk. No milk, tonic, or juice means no smoothness, but intense depth for those who dig it. Some client knew cocktails better than me; drunk ramblings stuck despite not caring.
Bartender approached grim again, eyed the others once more, mixed right in front of me this time.
"Your Black Russian."
Wide glass, ice, black elixir beckoning me to chug. Booze ain't life's answer, but it's shelter. Used to think guzzlers wrecking their livers for fleeting highs were idiots—but trying it? Nothing better. Booze makes you happy—why not drink? Idiots.
"Gulp, gulp. Haaaah!"
Not crazy, but downed a Black Russian in two gulps—then the inner boil surged; hot breath escaped. Throat stung, guts heated, fever raging—but fuzzy high floated me like a balloon. Hot. Too hot, burning.
"Gh, ughhh... hm?!"
"Holds out quite well."
Startled by the deep, British-gentleman voice from moments ago, I whipped around. The two black-clad men now stood side-by-side behind me, looming.
"What... the fuck?"
"Fascinating. Normal possessed folk dodge food or drinks with even a drop of holy water like pros—but you chug two. Unaware?"
"What bullshit... ughhhh!"
"Feeling the urge to puke your guts out now? Or rip your clothes to shreds?"
"Ooooh, ooooooh........."
"Master, mind if we borrow the lounge?"
"Of course, Father. There's a rest room for regulars inside. Use that."
Why's the bartender chatting so chummy? Father? Why the lounge? Perverted adulterers hobby?
"Take him, Yohan."
"Yes."
The young guy called Yohan draped a pale purple—or plum—cloth over me and tugged. Rage flared, fists clenched—but arms flopped like a puppet with cut strings. As I groaned dragged along, the deep-voiced man grabbed my head, shoved it down. Shockingly, it went.
"Don't fight it pointlessly."