Check-In 3
11 p.m.

Steven was not able to stand for this evaluation. He simply lay on the ground and giggled. Responses to direct questions were largely incomprehensible and not on topic. I am not sure if he were responding to my questions, or simply talking to whatever horrible demons that no doubt circled his head in his fevered imagination.

Color: Brighter red.

Asked "How do you feel?": "Oh my God, it's the fuckin' plug-in."

Asked "What do you think of Cisco?": "Naw, man, she was fuckin' dynamite man. "

Observed Craziness level: 9

General observation of progress: He may be done at this point.

Subject's handwritten message with 2 bottles inside him:

We were all amazed at his ability to actually write legibly, considering he no longer even possessed the ability to sit on his own. I literally had to grab his hand and force the pen into his grasp, because he kept missing it when I held it out to him.

At this point the unthinkable happened.

We cut him off.

This is an entirely unprecedented move, believe me. Considering that our idea of a good time is often to throw very large and dangerous fireworks at one another, you must realize how close to death we felt Steven to be in to make this move.

Two bottles had wreaked unknown havoc on his mind, and three would definitely have been too many, to say nothing of four. All motor functions and presence of mind had left him at this point, leaving him able to simply writhe on the floor and shout at things that only he could see.

Along with this change in demeanor came an entirely unexpected wave of bigotry as well. No longer than two minutes could pass without the subject letting the world know his very dim views of the Jewish people. I am not aware of any previous examples of this kind of behavior out of Steven; in fact I'm not sure Steven has ever even MET a Jewish person. My only conclusion is that drinking Cisco somehow imbues a person with very strong feeling of antisemitism.

Other things our subject managed to say were not entirely coherent, but definitely funnier and more quotable. One such instance came during a twenty or so minute period of time when he would end every sentence with a very Pauly Shore-ish "buuuuudy."

I commented on this saying something to the effect of:

"Cisco turns you into a retarded Pauly Shore."

To which Steven magnificently replied:

"I ain't damn Pauly Shore, buuuuudy."

Which I think really only proved my point.

Of course, Steven's most memorable quote came hot on the heels of violently attacking a plate of cookies and getting into a wrestling match with a broom.

"I'm fucking Megatron, man. I'm the shit!"

To which I am fairly certain he meant that he was Megatron, and not that he was somehow engaged in intercourse with a Decepticon.

But maybe not. He was jacked on Cisco, after all.

This hilarity had to end however, and he finally began to show signs that he might throw up. We knew this would begin his long, slow descent into the bleakest depths of the after-Cisco crash.

We managed to drag him outside and prop him against a support beam, hopefully to take care of any kind of puking that he felt he had to do outside where it wouldn't matter if he projectile vomited fifteen feet.

He still couldn't manage to keep himself vertical and he rolled over onto the freezing ground either unable or unwilling to vomit. Believe me when I say that one's conscience begins to weigh heavily on a person upon consideration that you may have had something to do with a person inflicting so much damage onto their mental capacities that they have forgotten how to throw up.

After waiting patiently, we finally drug him back inside and carried him to an air mattress we had prepared and waiting in the far corner of the basement where we hoped he would fall asleep. To increase the chances of him not leaving the air mattress, we dropped a blanket on him which he promptly tangled himself up in. In Steven's Cisco-induced state of confusion, finding his way out of that blanket would be like finding the other side of a Möbius strip.

He begged to be able to do another check in, and I obliged by letting him sign a message. Mercifully, he seemed to gain some little bit of joy from this. It would be the last happiness that life would afford him for many hours.

Steven thrashed for some time, to little effect, and we assumed he was down for the night. The rest of us talked for a while in hushed and repenetant tones, and then noticed Steven had somehow wormed his way partly off of the mattress. He was sort of crawling toward us in a way that suggested not only that he could not remember how to crawl, but even if he did, he was entirely too drunk to consider doing it. We all enjoyed a laugh at his pathetic attempts at locomotion, assuming he only wanted to come back and join in the fun with the rest of us.

Several minutes later, he had only managed to gain perhaps a foot and a half of distance and was managing to drag the air mattress and the tangled blanket along with him. At that point, someone realized that Steven had made an infinitesimal turn toward the bathroom instead of toward us and it became all too clear what was going on. Steven had not wanted to rejoin us at all; he had been struggling for minutes completely unheeded by us, dragging himself toward the bathroom so he could throw up. We all stood in unison, frantically trying to reach him in time, but it was, alas, too late.

He puked where he lie.

Now, covered in his own bile and looking every inch the man who regretted that his parents hadn't used birth control, we knew the experiment was over; our good intentions spilt out like the contents of Steven's stomach. A quick clean up of the mess was done and Steven was dumped unceremoniously in the tub lest he soil himself further.

We finally stripped his booze and vomit stained shirt from him and deposited him in the floor by the toilet. We tried to get some water in him, but I'm pretty sure he had forgotten how to swallow.

The next few hours must have passed slowly and painfully for Steven. He hugged the toilet, sleeping at times, but always waking up and screaming as if chased through the bowels of hell itself. Oftentimes he would beg for death in a way that made you wish you could grant his wish. He was wracked by violet shivers so bad that we found some random shirt on the floor and made him put it on.

I took no further notes on Steven's progress, in case he had squirreled away some modicum of dignity that we knew nothing about. He was a broken, ghost of a man for the rest of the night, but I am pleased to announce that he did not die.

The next morning, he aroused himself up out of the floor, picked up the guitar he had been playing with earlier, and sat down to pluck out some chords. After a moment, he looked up brightly and asked:

"So what happened last night?"

It might be better that he never knows.

-Aaron Littleton