Stag Night

He took a swig before the swing. He had his girlfriend in his wallet. Young, crumpled, from last spring, she stayed at home to call him.

He held an ashtray made of glass, stained apropos to dull reflection, to hurl at the serving lass, for she had thwarted his affection.

But John, or Rob or Kieran stayed his hand, raised in a fuggy wonder at how the empty mugs arrayed begged to be swept asunder.

By dint of the approaching morn, the hour paled towards closing. One plastered to his brother's kip dreamt pasty-faced of fanny-nosing.