"Fuck it" you shout at the malformed man painted in pastel on the wall.
Drink dat! he commands.
You chug the shot of whiskey down with no regard for your safety, sobriety, or enjoyment.
You don't feel directly more festive nor do you feel more a part of the local celebrations, but you feel at least that your grandmother won't try to kiss you because you've already escorted her to bed. Old habits die hard, but neemaw won't be trying to seduce you tonight - the open bar has seen to that.
Relieved in the simple imbibatory philosophy that coats the reactionary facilities nearing the mural, you sleep well.
No one on your beat will have their feet masturbated to, of that you're sure.