Fire crackles as torches light the depths of Arcadia, a cacophony of music blaring from a settlement of tents on a level where the lights no longer shine. In the center of the tents, surrounded by a never ending party, stands Hatchet. He leans on a table on stage, two rows of nineteen shots lined up.
“Which of you assholes thinks you can outdrink me?” The Ringmaster shouts at his Gathering, the crowd going silent until one man raises his hand.
“Shit, you think you’re tough? You ganna get up here then?” The Juggalo moves onto the stage, nodding his head. Hatchet’s lips simply curl into a venomous smirk as he sits across from him at the table.
“Rules are simple, scrub. We start knockin’ back shots one after the other. Last man standin’ wins.” His follower goes to reach for the shot but Hatchet grabs his hand, stopping him. “I ain’t finished, bitch. If you beat me, then you get anythin’ you want. Credits, pussy… Shit, I’ll give you the whole fuckin’ Gathering.”
“And when I win? Well, you’ll see what happens.” Hatchet smirks, turning to a member of Gathering off to the side. “Ring the bell!”
Ding!
Both men begin drinking, the shot glasses going up before being slammed back down with authority. The challenger grimaces with each drink, yet Hatchet’s smirk never leaves his face as he almost casually throws back shot after shot.
With each passing moment the challenger gets more delirious, counting his shots as he goes. One, two, five, ten. The Gathering cheers as both men go shot for shot! “See,” Hatchet says as they drink, “It ain’t about how much vodka you choke back, because people ain’t gonna remember you as the bitch that could throat nineteen shots.”
Hatchet gets to shot eighteen, still unphased by the contest. Meanwhile, the juggalo across from him sits shitfaced, barely able to even sit upright as he looks at Hatchet in confusion. “H-ow’re you-” He slurs his words, Hatchet cutting him off.
“Sober? Oh, you’re as fuckin’ stupid as you look. I didn’t say what I was drinkin’, bitch. While you were knockin’ back vodka? I was sippin’ water.” The challenger looks on in shock, too drunk to stand up as Hatchet reaches across the table, grabbing his follower’s nineteenth shot.
“Like I said, it ain’t about how much you drink in a contest like this. It ain’t about number, it’s about opportunity. You can gag on eighteen shots of bottom shelf shit, you could slaughter eighteen lil lambs all by yourself.” Hatchet downs the last shot of Vodka himself, chuckling as he does.
“But if you still find yourself on the slaughterhouse floor, then it don’t matter how strong you were or how much punishment you took, ya still fuckin’ lost. I didn’t win because I could drink more, I won because I drank exactly what I needed to.” Hatchet stands up, grabbing an axe from beside the table as the crowd cheers! His opponent sits wide eyed, helpless.
“You got a raw deal. But if you were smart you’d fuckin’ know.”
Swing.
Chop!
“Eventually? Everyone gets downed by the clown.”