One Shining Moment: A tale of championship debauchery

He sat perched on the edge of the world, his feet swinging in the air as his body teetered back and forth. His eyes were absent of thought but his brow carried a sense of determination. He recalled back to the times that he had watched Bear Grylls plummet from the sky onto solid ground. Bend at the knees, tuck and roll he thought to himself as he scooted ever closer to the edge. He would soon be at the point of no return, he knew that if he hesitated that it would end in disaster. He took a last deep breath.

                “Wha..What are you doin’, man?” Jean-Pierre asked.

                “I’m going to go down there with that girl.” McNalty slurred.

                “But, like use the ladder though.” Jean-Pierre said.

                “Nah, man. Ladders are for pussies.” McNalty said as he pushed himself over. He had pictured the event going much, much differently in his alcohol infused mind. He was so sure that he could do as he had seen on the television, but was very quickly proven wrong.

As he laid on the disgusting floor that was soaked in regret, he thought about where it had all gone wrong.

 “How much alcohol do you think we should buy?” Jean-Pierre asked them as they sat around waiting for their friend with a fake ID to show up.

“I don’t know, maybe like a handle of KG and some beer.” McNalty responded.

“But I think if we start drinking the liquor too soon we may not make it to the riot after the game.” Jean-Pierre said.

“Yeah, I think we get like a 24 pack of Natty for the game and then towards the end we can start pounding the KG.” McNalty said. “I mean we should buy the stuff now, so we have it just in case.”

“Yeah that sounds good.” Jean-Pierre said.

Soon their friend who was going by the name of Daniel Gandy for this occasion arrived and the trio headed to the least reputable liquor store in the area. Third street liquor, a cement block building with bars surrounding its windows was where they ended up. The location was notorious for selling to underage minors so the mood in the car was light even though the ID that Gandy was using was very bad. Aside from the fact that the picture and the person using the ID were entirely different and didn’t really bare any resemblance, the person in the ID was 25, from Delaware and had different color eyes than the person who would be using it. Even with all of these factors going against them, Gandy quickly returned from the liquor store with the necessary spirits for the event.

Soon enough a barbaric amount of drinking ensued. The trio had made their way to the apartment of one of their fraternity brothers, let’s call him John Smith. John had the unique advantage of living on the street where the riot would hopefully ensue if the team were to win the championship. McNalty and Jean-Pierre were both veterans of the State Street riot of the previous year and very much looked forward to the lawless-ness that would hopefully spill out into the streets in the coming hours. After making quick work of the first twenty-four pack they had to arrange for Gandy to get a sober ride back to liquor store for more beer, making sure they didn’t tap into the liquor too soon was a key part of the plan. Gandy returned with the goods along with several of McNalty’s friends from his hometown, tip-off was on the horizon.

The crowd in the apartment had grown to about ten by the time the game had started. Soon the mood turned in the room as the team started the game poorly. Throwing caution to the wind, McNalty reasoned that if the team were to lose he didn’t want to remember the event and began pouring himself and Jean-Pierre shot after shot. They took a shot for every five points the team surrendered and things quickly became blurred. The team pulled back to be only down one at halftime and the mood brightened. Ace, a close associate of McNalty’s pulled out a rolled marijuana cigarette and asked if the others would like to partake.

McNalty, Jean-Pierre, Mr. Smith and Ace made their way into a bedroom and began to smoke the magical herb. McNalty’s mental state had begun to falter by this point however, he spent the night before watching both the original and the remake of Total Recall. Combined with the lack of sleep, the complicated plot of the movie heavy on his mind, and the foreign chemicals that had begun to make up most of the chemicals in his body he began to, as the kids would say, trip balls.

“Hey, man, you ever think like maybe this isn’t real?” McNalty said to Ace.

“I think maybe you should slow down a little bit.” Ace said.

“Right, that’s what they would think though isn’t it. Like what if I’m getting close to figuring it out though. I bet I don’t even really know you, bro. You’re probably not even real.” McNalty said to no one as Ace and the others had fled his nonsensical rambling quicker than his mind could recognize. McNalty exited the room, now suspicious of the people that filled it, and began thinking that it was all part of the program that he was in, I suppose for this part of the story you would have to know the intricacies of the plot to Total Recall, but here we are. McNalty swayed over to the bar where a shot glass full of KG sat. He wrapped his hands around the shot and threw the vile liquid into his mouth and down his gullet.

As the liquid made its’ way through his body, McNalty collapsed to the floor, his world going white. Soon two figures appeared, one of them was Will Arnett dressed as Jesus, the other was Bob Dylan with his harmonica.

“McNalty, I have come to tell you some good news.” Will Arnett said.

“Aren’t you, uh, Will Arnett?” McNalty said.

“Uh... I mean I am but for the purposes of this experience I am Christ, so let’s just move on.” Will Arnett said, as Bob Dylan began playing Hurricane in the background.

“Yeah, okay.” McNalty said.

“Louisville is going to win this game, my son.” Will Arnett said.

“Cool. Can I... uh... go back now, or am I like dead?” McNalty asked.

“Oh, no. You’re good to go man. You should probably slow down a bit though.” Will Arnett said.

“Yeah.” McNalty scoffed.

After downing another ill-advised shot, McNalty sat on the couch in state of blackout stupor. To the outside observer it would have appeared that he was one of those mental patients that is kept heavily sedated for his own safety. Even his friends assumed this was the dying light of McNalty’s night. Little did they know the beast was not defeated, he was merely resting, and as the final buzzer went off crowning Louisville the champion, he awoke.

“Riot!” McNalty jumped to his feet and yelled. As he ran down the stairs and out into the street a crowd had already gathered, he wandered for a bit having been separated from his friends. Soon he found Jean-Pierre and they had assumed that they were the only survivors of the drinking. Together they roamed around waiting for a couch or car to be lit aflame, but they had no such luck. It was then when they had nearly given up that a plastic Santa Claus fell at their feet. McNalty saw what he thought was either a midget or child with a lighter and began to berate the small person.

“Light this fucking Santa on fire, you fucking midget.” McNalty growled.

A man ran into the center of the circle that had formed around the Santa and fired a bottle rocket into the air. The police quickly converted on the area spraying tear gas and beating the man into submission. McNalty and Jean-Pierre quickly reasoned that this wouldn’t go well for them if they stayed in the area. They began to roam around again, until another stroke of luck was bestowed upon them. They saw two girls that they had met in another God forsaken place, Panama City Beach. They told them that they were going to the party house and asked if the two, now very browned out guys needed a ride, the degenerates had found their path of escape.

The foursome entered the rundown party house simply known as the Oz. It would be easy to say that the house had seen better days, but thinking about how things progressed over the years it would also be easy to say that these were the better days. An older member of the fraternity ran in with the ingredients to make hooch and then left, giving them to McNalty and Jean-Pierre. The two drunkards poured in many bottles of vodka and a much lighter amount of mixers, and began drinking again.

As the night drug on, McNalty and Jean-Pierre had made their way into the loft overlooking the floor which lay roughly twelve feet below. They would occasionally throw down empty cups and demand younger members of the fraternity fetch them more of the dangerous liquid. Without him realizing it some girls had made their way into the loft and McNalty had been carrying on a conversation with them. He became fully aware of his surroundings when one of the girls touched his hand and told him to meet her downstairs.

“Are you…alright?” A man asked McNalty as he laid in the floor in agony.

“I think I broke my foot.” McNalty said quickly feeling the sharp and fierce pain coming from his lower limb. The man removed his shoe and looked up at him.

“Are you wearing a belt?” The man said.

“Yeah...” McNalty said raising up his shirt as a child would do. The man quickly stripped the belt from him.

“This is going to hurt.” The man said, he then tightened the belt quickly setting the broken bones of the morons’ foot. “I’ll go and get some ice.”

McNalty crawled over to the tattered couch across the room. Soon the man returned with two frozen liquid ice bricks, like the ones a construction worker would use to keep his lunch cold, certainly nothing like a medical professional would suggest. Over the next couple of hours several other people had tended to McNalty and his foot which was now wrapped in duct tape with the ice packs trapped between the belt and his skin. He then drifted off, deciding the agony was a tomorrow problem. He awoke with Jean-Pierre asleep on one side of the couch, as McNalty himself was laying in the lap of a strange woman. She appeared to petting his head, she said some words he didn’t quite understand and got up, his phone then lit up.

A text message appeared from what he assumed was the woman that had just left him. It said that she would give him a ride home, but just a ride home and asserted that nothing else would happen because this woman was not that type of woman. To clarify, anyone who says they are not that type of person, via text message at five am, to a strange, now slightly disfigured man, is most certainly that type of person.

Jean-Pierre awoke the next morning in the loft, a full cup of hooch haunted his sightline. He arose a bit and saw that his counterpart was nowhere to be found, then discovering that in the night McNalty had also lifted his keys from him.

“Hey, man you trying to swing me down to K-State?” A stranger who had apparently slept on the other side of the loft said.

“Like in Frankfort?” Jean-Pierre asked.

“Yeah, bro. I got class at 10.” The strange said.

“Nah, man.” Jean-Pierre said and descended the ladder. He returned home to find McNalty asleep on the couch, covered in shame, his foot wrapped up like he was some sort of Siberian prisoner having to march through the tundra. “What’s wrong with you?” He said stirring McNalty.

“I think there’s probably a long list. But I’m pretty sure I broke my foot. And I hooked up with a strange woman last night…on this couch.”

“Well, could’ve been worse.” Jean-Pierre said. 

“I guess, can you make me some lunch. I…uh…can’t walk.” McNalty said.

“I guess, you fucking degenerate.” Jean-Pierre said.

Will Arnett and Bob Dylan watched on in heaven as the legend of McNalty had grown just a bit that night.

The Jasmine Parlor

Part I: Surviving the worst party house in America.