The first meeting of the Anti Guzzler Society was held in a very dilapidated warehouse. The turnout was enormous, but that wasn’t surprising; the Guzzler had many critics. At one point he probably had a normal name, but no one could remember it now. Once you drink all of the Great Lakes in a mere 24 hours everything else seems unimportant. A man on the front stage was ranting and raving while the audience hooted and hollered in response.

"What do we want?” 

“To kill the Guzzler!”

 “When do we want it?” 

“Now!” 

How does one man generate this much hatred and vitriol? It may seem impossible but the Guzzler found a way. The surge of new members was likely a result of the recent water shortage in Iowa caused by the Guzzler. He had done an interview on Late Night with Ernest Earlsworth last week, and when asked about his motive, he responded, “Yeah I was really thirsty.” Even beyond the more serious stuff, like depriving several hundred Iowans of their water, the Guzzler just ticked people off. His movie takes were abhorrent, he always had a smug look on his face, and his fashion sense was horrible. 

The crowd was all gathered near the front of the stage. All except one mysterious figure situated in a dark corner at the back. The man was surrounded by mountains of soda cans, glass bottles, and boxes.  He wore a bright orange baseball cap, cargo shorts, and a flamingo pink tee shirt. There wasn’t enough light to see his face. At the moment he was drinking a can of Canada Dry ginger ale at an unusually quick speed. One of the AGS officers on patrol duty spotted the suspicious fellow and began to approach him. 

“Hey buddy, slow down, you know the first rule of the society; you must drink at a leisurely pace!” The mysterious man ignored him. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” The man did not respond.

“Listen up you arrogant punk!” The officer snatched the figure’s Ginger Ale out of his hands. He slowly turned towards the officer.

“Wait, that face.. NO! It can’t be!” 

The Guzzler lunged towards him with a mad look in his eyes.  He broke the glass bottle in his hand and stabbed it through the officer’s neck. The Anti-Guzzler officer fell to the floor and blood started gushing out of him. The Guzzler got out his water bottle and collected some of it in case he got thirsty later. None of the other members had noticed this, they were too enraptured by the speaker on stage. 

“Alright everyone let’s do some brainstorming. How can we kill the Guzzler?” 

“Poison?” Someone shouted out from the crowd.

“No, he's already drunk every poison he could get his hands on. None of them have an effect.” 

“Shoot him?” 

“We’ve tried but he’s just too damn acrobatic. He can do a mean triple backflip.” The crowd collectively conceded that his triple backflips were pretty impressive.

“Make a big pit with spikes at the bottom and fill it with a refreshing beverage like Gatorade.”

“Hmmm, write that down.” Someone in the crowd chimed in that they thought Gatorade was overrated. While they kept discussing, the Guzzler had started scurrying up the side of the wall.

“Alright, alright, let’s move on to personal insults.”

The crowd discussed among themselves. Somehow no one noticed the Guzzler on the wall, scurrying towards the front stage. Finally someone raised their hand. 

“Yes, you.” 

“What if we called him a stupid bastard?” The speaker shook his head in disapproval.

“No, I’m sorry, but it’s too broad. That could apply to just about anyone. Any other ideas-”

Klang. A can of ginger ale beamed the speaker in the face. 

“Hey! Who did that?” 

“I did," said the Guzzler as he gracefully descended to the floor. 

“Th-the Gu-guzzler?! How did you find us?!” 

“We have our ways.” The Guzzler walked over and snatched the microphone.

“Loyal fans! Come forth!” The doors burst open. Ten people on motorcycles drove into the warehouse. They were all holding shotguns. Behind them were about fifty ground soldiers. 

“It’s the Guzzler Fans United! Everyone run!” The society members scattered in every direction. The ones who had weapons on hand started firing back at the GFU soldiers. One of the motorcycle riders hit a dead officer and flew off of the vehicle. The motorcycle exploded into a big ball of fire and the rider tumbled onto the floor. Back on the front stage, the speaker got out his knife and faced the Guzzler head on. 

“My name is Harold Cullen. You recognize me?” 

The Guzzler narrowed his eyes in contemplation. “No, I can’t say I do.” 

“September 14, 1998, I was sitting at a bar. You walked over and took my beer, guzzled it down in two seconds. I spent eight dollars on that beer, it was pricey! Do you know how much that is adjusted for inflation?” 

“No.” 

“Me neither, but it’s certainly high!”

Harold lunged at the Guzzler with his knife. The Guzzler backflipped away from him to avoid the blade. KABOOM! There was a big explosion out in the crowd. A GFU soldier wearing big sunglasses tumbled through the air. Harold and the Guzzler looked over. 

“Huh, maybe we shouldn’t have cheaped out on the vehicles.” The Guzzler muttered to himself.

Harold went for the head but the Guzzler was too fast. He grabbed Harold by the neck and began to levitate with the power of hydration. Harold squawked in protest but the Guzzler continued to rise. Finally they stopped in the air. 

The Guzzler thought back to his days in little league baseball. He was the best pitcher on the team. He would have gone pro, in fact, if they hadn’t kicked him off. “You can’t just leave in the middle of a game because you want to get some water.” That’s what the coach said. Those fools, they didn’t see the vision. The Guzzler channeled his anger towards Harold and pitched him straight forward. Harold crashed through the warehouse like it was made out of paper.

“DAMN YOU GUZZLER,” he shouted, shaking his fist, as he soared through the air. The Guzzler flew after him, going so fast that he broke the sound barrier. It only took him five seconds to catch up, snap Harold’s body in half like a crab leg, and drink all of the blood pouring out of him. Once his thirst was quenched, The Guzzler flew back to the warehouse. He landed back on the stage where had fought Cullen. There was a pensive expression on his face. 

 “Where on earth did I put that water bottle?” The Guzzler looked out over the warehouse with the piles of flaming corpses. The one motorcycle rider left was attempting to do a wheelie. They were starting their eighth attempt when an AGS soldier crawled out from a pile of bodies and shot the GFU soldier’s vehicle. They were both obliterated by the resulting explosion. The smoke made it difficult to see but it seemed the Anti-Guzzler Society and Guzzler Fans United had been equally matched.

I drank rosé in a pizza parlor tucked away in the backstreets of Paris. The tables were sandwiched together underneath warm lights, with soft jazz humming through the air like a breeze.

“Bonsoir,” the waiter greeted us when we walked through the door. I sat in a booth, opposite my aunt. The waiter handed us two worn menus, fringed at the edges.

“Vous voulez quelque chose à boire?” he asked.

“Deux verres de vin rosé, s’il vous plait,” my aunt responded, the French words gliding through the restaurant like a melody. I separated all of the sounds in my head, trying to piece together their meaning. 

The rosé came before the meal, and we made a toast to the city of light—the city that I never wanted to leave. The wine was nearly translucent under the glow of hanging lights. It was bitter and chilled, though the environment was anything but. 

***

I drank mulled wine wandering through a Christmas festival near the Sacré-Cœur. It was warm and cozy, and it nestled into my bloodstream. The wine was deep and rich, thick with cinnamon. 

All around me, the sounds of the holidays filled the air. Bells were ringing, children were laughing, and a choir sang out a cheerful melody. In the center was a sprawling pine tree cluttered with flickering lights and chipped ornaments. It was Christmas in Paris, the most wonderful time of year.

***

I drank champagne outside of the Musee D'orsay, a sharp breeze nipping at my cheeks. It bubbled and fizzed and popped in my stomach. It had a bite to it, a fierceness that took me by surprise. I looked up at the sky, my own starry night rivaling the one in the museum.

Champagne is for celebrating, and indeed I was. I was looking out over the Seine, its murky waters glistening in the vibrant night. Evening had fallen over the city, but the pleasant hum of life had yet to cease. The city of light, and I felt it in my core. The city of love, and I had indeed fallen for it. The champagne had grabbed hold of my joy and tugged it further than ever before. I was tipsy, and carefree, and I knew in that instant that I belonged to Paris.

As a child I thought it was silly that my mother never learned Tagalog, because my Phillipine-born grandmother was fluent in it. Now my grandmother is afraid to go to the Asian store to buy rice flour, and I don’t think it's silly anymore. She is afraid to go because she is Filipino and has brown skin, and possesses a tongue privy to Tagalog that illustrates this to the world. She is well aware that her complexion and her voice could result in masked men twice her stature forcing her delicate, proudly jeweled hands behind her back. I don’t think it’s silly anymore, when she fears these strangers in bullet proof vests yelling at her for an ID at a volume that presumes she is stupid because she must not be from here. 

I wish I could comfort her and tell her that because she was naturalized in America and possesses a record of her citizenship, that it is enough to keep ICE agents from interrogating her. But they do not hear Tagalog or see a beautiful product of the American melting pot; they hear and see something foreign. I instead must implore her to bring my caucasian grandfather with her to buy rice flour, and pray that despite his frail age, his whiteness is enough to defend her. It is not so silly now, why she insisted on never teaching her homeland’s language to my mother. A piece of heritage smited before it could be formed, before it could endanger her children in an Arkansan Asian store, the purchase of bokchoi or Tamari sauce their last moment before they’re on the floor of a detention center. I understand now.

Beep. The cashier looked up at the dishevelled man who had purchased one loaf of sourdough bread. 

“Is that ALL you’re getting? Just a loaf of bread? No drink or anything?” 

“Um-yeah, I think that’s everything” 

“Are you sure? Not even one drink? You’re the Guzzler, man! I saw you drink 8 water bottles on TV last night!” 

The Guzzler gave out a long defeated sigh.

“Yeah man, I’m sure.”

The cashier scowled. This wasn’t how he thought meeting a celebrity would go. 

“Here's your change,” he muttered. The Guzzler snatched his three quarters and shambled out of the grocery store. The temperature was around 50 degrees but the wind made it colder. There was heavy fog as well, which made The Guzzler feel like James Sunderland. 

What do you do when you have everything? When you’ve solved the rising sea levels, when you’ve slaughtered all of your opponents, when you’ve drunk everything, what’s next? There had to be an answer but the Guzzler couldn’t find it. He suddenly stopped in the parking lot. What's the point of reaching my car, what’s the point of anything? The Guzzler sat down on the concrete lot and started digging into his sour dough bread. 

Two bright lights emerged from the mist. A car was coming but the Guzzler was too busy sulking and self pitying to notice. Guzzler look out! The car rolled into him and he got mashed into a big mess of human jelly. If only he had listened to his parents and been a doctor.

***

The Lit Mag classroom sat in awkward silence like someone had walked in and kicked their dog. Finally someone raised their hand. “The narration was kind of confusing, especially when they interjected in the parking lo-.”  

A chromebook beamed them right in the head. The culprit stood up on their desk. 

“Narration?! This is not a matter of narration! This is blasphemy, character assasination, pure degeneracy! They’ve sullied the Guzzler’s good name!” 

Another student got up onto their desk. 

“The Guzzler didn’t drink anything! What kind of sick bastard writes about the Guzzler and doesn’t even include him guzzling?!” 

“This story is vile! The Guzzler wouldn’t die to a measly car, he’s not some lowborn commoner!” 

“Let’s not kid ourselves, this is a reject, no, this is worse than a reject, it’s worthy of the cage. We can’t let this stand! 

“YEAH!” 

“I AGREE!” 

“Whoever wrote this abomination, reveal yourself!” 

James Zillman (Not to be confused with Churchill, Price, or Sunderland from hit game, Silent Hill 2) stood up. Everyone turned towards him. 

“Oh! I didn’t write it. I was just going to get some water.” He coughed after he said it. It was an intentional cough, he thought it would make the statement more casual. 

Gary Graggleton, member of Lit Mag, stood up. His hands were shaking, his lips were quivering, and beads of sweat speckled his face. He rushed towards the computer section and got out a big sledgehammer from his backpack.

“Nobody move! You idiots, you’re too small minded, you can’t comprehend emotional depth! You-you can't comprehend it! The Guzzler is supposed to be at rock bottom! It’s a cautionary tale! It’s supposed to be challenging you dolts! There’s something wrong with you people! You’re not human, you can’t possibly be human! Reject this piece and I’ll bash the new computers into pieces!” 

James Sallow, member of Lit Mag, (not to be confused with Churchill, Price, Sunderland, or Zillman who had just left to get some water) ignored Graggleton's warning and started walking over.

“Stay back!” 

Graggleton threw his chromebook at Sallow. The chromebook passed right through him, like he wasn’t even there.

“Wha- but how?”

“I’m the ghost,” said James Sallow. “I’m the ghost from that Shakespeare play. Everything goes back to Shakespeare or the Bible. Didn’t you learn this from my book?”

“It's you, how is this-?” 

Every member of the Literary Magazine calmly took off their masks, revealing the head of famous author, Thomas C. Foster. They all started to speak in unison.

“Yes, it is us, THE FOSTERS, the collective magical hivemind behind world renowned books like How To Read Literature Like A Professor, How to Write Literature Like A Professor, and so on. The collective known as Thomas C. Foster has been here since the big bang and we’ll be here when this school crumbles to dust. Who built Stonehenge? Thomas C. Foster. Who actually wrote the bible? Thomas C. Foster. Who was the ghost writer for the Declaration of Indepence? Yes, it was Thomas C. Foster. This entire classroom has been fosterized, except for you, Gary Graggleton. Prepare to die.” They spoke in a high pitched voice like those cartoon rats who cover pop songs.

“Dear God, OH GOD NO! HELP! HELP!” Graggleton screamed his lungs out but no one (except for Ms. Steuart, who had more important things to do) heard him. The Fosters beat Graggleton with sticks, stones, etc.

 “No one can stop us Fosters! NO ONE!”