There is a vacuum from which no memory can escape. We have contained it in this mug, and the scientists have named it the Event Horizon.
The bar - the only frontier. We’re beyond it now, having drifted past the Big Buck Hunter machine and that old guy that always brings his own beer nuts. It is all a distant point of light, no brighter than a candle, and the only thing we can hear is the jukebox repeating A-Ha, Europe, and Toto. We’ve said our goodbyes to friends and families. We won’t be seeing them again until they find us crashed out on the front lawn in the morning. Ignore the images of our past lives, the clocks, the bartender checking with a mirror to see if we’re still breathing, they are mirages of a long time ago in a galaxy far out past the parking lot. They’ll haunt us if we let them, so we must push on. We can’t abort now, we must boldly venture further to where no man has gone before he blacked out.
We fuel up the second stage. The coffee keeps our hearts warm while the Vodka, Whiskey and Kahlua kick in the after burner. Pint glasses look like shot glasses from up here. We can see that Einstein was right, time is slowing down as we approach the alcohol singularity. Now, we’re on the edge of forever. We’re Peary and Henson, discovering the North Pole of the universe. We’re Magellan before his ill-fated Singles Mingle party in the Philippines. We’re Uncle Waylon, on the verge of discovering the The Uncle Waylon (Influence 11-11). We’re the discoverers of the undiscovered country, we’re playing amongst the cosmic strings of theory, we’re that cool guitar break in David Bowie’s Space Oddity. We are surrounded by white dwarves and red giants and there is no coming back.
But we need more fuel. HAL, make us more drinks. Two, we’d like two more drinks. HAL, we said TWO. Look, don’t argue with us, HAL. We’ve come too far to let you and your stupid vest stop us. No, you CAN’T cut us off, HAL. Here, give us the bottles and we’ll make them ourselves. What do you mean, “you’re afraid you can’t let us do that?!” What does that mean?! And now you want to call the cops?! HAL, you idiot. We’re in deep space. There aren’t any cops here. We’re the only humans for light-years around. We are the kings of this sector. We are the Lords of space-time and we no longer have to answer to you with your hipster mustache and ironic love of eighties synth-pop. We are beyond your comprehension, HAL. That’s why you hate us, cause you’re jealous we attained oneness with the universe. Fine, try to call the cops, HAL. We’re just gonna lay down on top of this outer space bar and wait for them. We’ll see who’s right, but when they don’t show up, you owe us another drink.
Party tip: Works best when made with gravity-well liquor.
Matt: “I always get a headache from reentry.”
Brian: “Ugh… when we were out last night, I think a pulsar went up my nose.”