I was all cunning and courage whence I began this task of downing a dozen spirits, but now my resolve and my vision falter. My adversaries swore I could not empty this twelfth glass, yet now I place her beside her hollow sisters. But what boon was there in this valorous act for me? I fear my audacity may be my own undoing.
Alas, a strange sensation grips my being. The glittering lights which sparkled seven shots ago now wax and wane before my oscillating eyes. My limbs which moved with such grace and vigor but an hour gone now threaten to betray me. Is this the lot I have been cast—to revel in Dionysus’ glory for an hour, only to fall victim to the cruel whims of Fate? Ah me, I am fickle Fortune’s fool!
This is the spring of my discontent, of that much I can be sure. A watery grave awaits me, should I reach the bottom of this vast bottle. I am a dolt indeed, to have been lured into this labyrinth of libations by some sweet siren song. The floor comes up to meet my face. A curse upon this soiled carpet. Would that I could be entombed in grass and flowers instead of this pool of ale.
Hark, what fell schemes of twisted Providence do assail mine innards now? A nest of vipers are my intestines and a spear’s roost is my head. Such pain as this have I never known. A privy! I must seek a privy, lest my impending vomitus spew disgrace me. Fie! This contemptible bile befouls my hair and hands. Out damned spot! Out, I say! Fortune, thou are a treacherous shrew, to use me so ill as this.