“He’s… been drinking since Saturday,” said Syl.
“Yes,” replied Phil, “but he’s only been drunk since Tuesday.”
“That’s still… eight days,” said Will.
Syl, Phil, Will, and Bill stood around Quetzalcoatl. He was asleep in his corner, curled up and covered in newspapers and trash bags.
“Where,” inquired Bill, “is he getting the beer from? He hasn’t… vacated the basement.”
Quetzalcoatl was also surrounded by several dozen empty beer bottles.
“He… requisitioned it from some of our… more recent acquisitions,” replied Phil.
“But,” asked Syl, “why… Budweiser?”
“I think it’s obvious… that the… gravity of society’s situation… has led him to jettison the… niceties, the more upscale alcoholic beverages… that a man of his intellect would prefer.”
“Clearly,” concurred Bill.
“I think,” countered Syl, “he actually… enjoys it.”
“Watch your tongue, Syl,” reprimanded Phil. “His methods may be… unconventional, even to our eyes, but he is still our… greatest hope. He has given us… direction, direction we sorely lacked. Do not speak of him as if he was… some common drunk.”
“But that is precisely what he is,” said Syl.
Phil, Will, and Bill—as well as Gil, Lil, Jill, Hil, and a smattering of other previously unnamed, unmentioned underlings who happened to be in the area—stopped what they were doing, stepped back, and gasped.
“Syl,” said Phil.
“You don’t…” said Will.
“…really mean…” said Bill.
“I do,” said Syl. “Quinn… has been playing us from the start. He cares as little for our cause as… as… applesauce monkey farts…”
Syl leaned forward and fell to the ground, landing on his face. Normally, this would have been cause for alarm. However, the broken Budweiser bottle wedged through Syl’s skull and into his brain stem took precedence over the falling.
“My apologies to our janitor and your vaginas, gentlemen,” said Quetzalcoatl, “but I simply will not… lean against a wall for this.”
Quetzalcoatl wanted to go with the more traditional “I will not stand for this,” as he thought it sounded more eloquent, but he was, in fact, having supreme difficulties with standing again and did not want to be a liar. About standing, anyway. Hence the more honest “leaning” approach. Because that’s what he was doing. Leaning.
“But, you killed him,” said Bill.
“A coat without buttons is still a bathrobe. And buttons shouldn’t be talking shit about the naked guy in the shower if they’d care to remain buttons.”
“Are you saying…” asked Phil.
“I’m your huckleberry.”