Sex, Drugs & No Idea

21: Castaway

"No, no, no, no, no, no, mate," Hugo said to the bartender, "you're doing it all fucking wrong. I tell you what, just give me the bottle and then you don't have to worry about it, do ya?" Riding over the protestations of the poor bloke behind the bar like a steamroller over a hedgehog, Hugo grabbed the bottle of Johnny Walker in a meaty fist, tossed down some money on the bar and stumped off to watch Will and Frenchy battling it out with a couple of the other guests at the giant jenga arena.

For some reason Charlie's patience with everything was wearing thin. Funny, in retrospect, how he could get sick of a seemingly perfect situation. What sort of imbeciles start fighting amongst themselves on a private beach as the sun sets, the warm water lapping companionably and quietly along the shoreline, with a bar stuffed with booze that you've already paid for, surrounded by their best mates?

He was not sure at what point, or why, tackling Frenchy through the giant Jenga set became a legitimately good idea in his mind. All he was sure about was that it just as spectacular and noisy as he had hoped it'd be. Wooden bricks rained down and, with them, the seeds of discontent.

There were a few cheers and a few groans as Charlie stood up but, before he could get a good handle on how his stock with the group as whole stood, Frenchy had regained his feet and given him a thump right in the side of the head.

Charlie's head rang like a bell, his hearing reverberating weirdly, his ear throbbing almost instantaneously.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" he said.

"Are you kiddin' me, Charlie! What's your fuckin' deal?"

"With what?"

"Tacklin' me through that giant brick game, you asshole!"

"Asshole?"

"Yes. You," Frenchy said. "You're a fuckin' asshole, man."

Charlie lunged at Frenchy, suddenly ablaze with directionless aggression. He could feel his lips involuntarily pulled back into some sort of deranged snarl, was aware that his eyes were slits of contempt.

Charlie grabbed the lithe American by his threadbare collar, but before he could figure out what to do next Hugo had his sizeable forearm around Charlie's neck.

"What're you flamin' doing, Charlie boy?" he said.

Frenchy, taking advantage of this distraction, sunk a fist deftly into Charlie's stomach and pulled away, ripping his t-shirt in the process.

"Fuck you, man, you fuckin' dick," the Texan hissed, spitting the words through his teeth. He looked rabid.

Yes, he'd started it, and it hadn't taken much, but now that he'd got the bit between his teeth Charlie was keen on really throwing a wobbler. The mood was an infectious one; the testosterone crystallising in the air. Frenchy, never the most level-headed or patient man, was well on his way to working himself up into a frenzy. Charlie could even feel the cords in Hugo's forearm squirming slightly, as if he was doing everything he could to stop himself popping Charlie's head off like the cork in a cheap bottle of Prosecco.

At that moment Will arrived, took up a playful, old school boxing stance and started to jab playfully at Charlie's ribs. Ducking and weaving like a drunken seahorse.

charlie kicked him right in the fork.

Will dropped without a fuss onto the floor, clutching his groin.

Hugo lifted Charlie into the air and he choked on his own spit and curses.

"Relax, you idiot," Hugo grunted in his ear, applying more pressure.