• What makes a story good? Some would say its realism, how close to home it is; how it breathes life into an otherwise hollow narrative; how it captures what those bearded scholars of then-and-gone called 'The Human Condition'. I can assure you however, that no story is ever truly real, and no universal condition of human-hood exists. My story... my warped, twisted and shoddily recounted odyssey of one extraordinary summer night could for no outwardly perceiving individual seem real. The only assurance I have is my word, and this is what you must accept as God's truth to understand my human condition.

    The night began as any other Saturday night does for my drinking comrades and I, shacked up in the cosy and rustic interior of 'The Blighted Mariner', a regular pit stop for any local drinker. Hardly a party spot yet adequate in every leisurely way, one finds themselves at home sat in the red-leather booths, each ordained with their own ridiculous wall ornament that protrudes from the wall and looms overhead, omniscient of your every action. On that night, ours was a carved wood skull coated white to illusively mock ivory. The inscription upon its forehead read: 'Et in Arcadia Ego'.

    Slamming down his glass tankard of coca-cola and spiced rum, a mouthful of liquid spilling out as he did so, Dyllan looked me straight in the eye. "You look like pasted shite." he exclaimed in utter monotone as he lay back in his seat. Truth is, I did. I had just been mugged, and in the process had miraculously managed to over-cross the two primordial instincts of flight and fight. The result: I assumed the foetal position and wept as they dove into my pockets and kicked relentlessly at my ribs. I wasn't ashamed, nor was I scared. I was just really really thirsty. "Buy me a drink." I demanded as I swallowed the blood which was dripping down the back of my throat from my bruised nose.
    "No."
    "Come on."
    "Christ, no."
    "Why not?"
    "You're already six drinks in debt to me, and I only have enough for another one for myself and my bus fare."
    "Well you've already got a drink, just get me one."
    "Sod off."
    "...Fine."

    A good baker's dozen of seconds passed by as I tried to whittle away Dyllan's stubbornness with something I like to call the (largely ineffective) 'Iron Glare'. Finally, I break my childish mental siege and state the obvious.

    "I got mugged."
    "I can tell. Who by?"
    "Some large hard-hitting aggressive men wearing hooded jackets."
    "What did they do?"
    "They mugged me..."
    "How?"
    "Well, they hit me and I fell down, then they took my things."
    "..."
    "What?"
    "Yeah, you got mugged mate. I take it that's why you're not buying yourself a drink?"
    "Well, I didn't have any money anyway, just some vouchers for a book store my grandmother gave me about ten aeons ago."
    "You never have any money."
    "I'm never employed."
    "For a reason."

    Then, silence. This was how Dyllan and I spent our time. This was our banter-tennis; the verbal battle of retort that we had over the pettiest and extremist of matters, regardless of circumstance. Usually, one of us would enter the conversation with a hindrance and the other would mock it through sheer force of retort and stoic-faced covert mockery. This was how best friends spent their time on a Saturday evening prior to the much anticipated phone call. Being a pair of social butterflies in our own respects, the probability that on a Saturday evening at least one of use was going to be invited to a party of some sort was around 100%. That night there was no phone call, only him.

    We first sensed the creamy waft of exotic tobacco which oozed sensually like holy incense as the beaten and crooked mahogany double-doors swung open wild west saloon style and in walked the Clint Eastwood-like character of the man as he tongued a brown-paper rolled cigarette into the corner of his mouth. Instantly he eyed us, and we eyed him back. He took slow bounding steps over to our table in heavy industrial boots. His face was old and beaten like the battle-scarred bow of a Georgian Warship, and his hands were weathered by years of hard craft and toil. From head to toe he was suited up prim and proper. His hair was divided by a centre parting and was oiled to such an extent that it reflected the glare of the overhead lamps. He made a bee-line for our table after a brief visit to the bar and slid in front of us each a cold, freshly pulled pint. "Gentlemen, you do not know me nor do you know my employers, however I would like to take this opportunity to introduce ourselves. We are the Order of Vice. There is a reason you had not yet heard of us." He spoke in the most gravely yet sophisticated tone I had heard. We were both taken aback, and I began to speak.
    "Mate, who the fu-"
    "There shall be no questions. The pair of you have been selected for our programme. Your obligation to abide to it is mandatory. There shall be no objections, no challenges and absolutely no distrust. The powers that be have entrusted you two with the task of propelling hedonism through this night to an extent which you two see fit. You are to evoke a city-wide celebration of the wild and the untamed, and all of this you are to do on your own."
    "Why should we? You could just be some crazy bas-"
    "No questions. In front of you have been placed two heavily drugged beverages. Each contains our own serum which will ensure soaring levels of confidence and sporadic behaviour. Should you choose to drink them, it is entirely your choice. Should you not, you will leave this bar and have the most disappointing and regretful night of your entire lives."
    "You're bloody crazy if you expect me to drink that!"
    "No distrust. Here is an incentive them."
    He produced from his pocket two humongous wads of cash. "This is entirely yours to spend, and it is yours if you drink those beers. But remember, there's no going back."
    Being desperately short of cash, withdrawing from adrenaline and incredibly bored I greedily eye-balled the money and then Dyllan and I looked at each other and instinctively knew what to do.

    We downed the glasses, and that's when the night began.