Elf Service by Max Sebastian

Elf Service

    It was like a battlefield after the final blow had landed: the dead and the dying strewn everywhere, mostly quiet, some groaning gently from the damage inflicted that evening. The scent of alcohol hung like blooded mist in the air, reminding all those still conscious of the cause of their demise.
    It had been a wild party.
    Somewhere off in the distance the music still played, as cheerily festive now as it had been at the beginning. As Joe came to, lying on the couch, he saw that the lights were still on in the large kitchen, adjoining this massive, drunk-strewn living room, and he could just about make out the motion of dancing – girls, mostly, still moving to the sound of Christmas hits, past and present. They loved that cheesy stuff. 
    So here it is, Merry Christmas, everybody having fun.
    Damn, that shot-downing contest had been a mistake. A quick survey of the battlefield revealed that most of the fallen had been those that had been involved in that surprisingly fearsome liquor jousting. A mixture of male and female – some couples, even, slumped all over the place. Few had gone home, they simply remained. The alcohol levels were simply too high all round. 
    No one was in a state to speak to that he could see, and that was no bad thing: Joe was in no real state for conversation. Nobody in that room was really in a state to lift their eyelids, either, as far as he could tell. Joe's watch read four in the morning – he couldn't have been out for much more than an hour. In a way, he wished he was still asleep: the alcohol remaining in his mouth reminded him of the dreadful excess inside him, and seemed almost to taunt him, pointing out that come the morning, his head would ache and as the full horror hit, he would regret his actions that evening.
    Those girls were still dancing – that was impressive. But they couldn't go on for much longer, surely.
    He didn't feel much like sleeping, though he wasn't exactly feeling much like anything. It was that horrible stage of the evening where a partygoer might be overcome with the mournful sense that things were over, the good times at an end, no more chances left to hook up with someone. Failed again. Nothing to do now but recover from the booze. It was a shame – it had been a great night. No wonder those girls were still dancing, changing the music then dancing still, unwilling to call it a day yet.
    Over on the other couch, he could see that Morris had got lucky, and though he was asleep, he was asleep with a pretty blonde called Fiona, his limbs entangled in hers, his cheek wedged against hers. Lucky bastard. There were others who had hooked up, too, lying around the room. Some on chairs, some on rugs, some slumped on the bare carpet.
    And here he was, alone. Damn it. And he had such high hopes, the party being so well-attended, the booze so free-flowing, the Christmas spirit so apparent after a particularly strenuous year.
    Perhaps he should get up, walk on out to the bright kitchen, where the girls were still up and running, laughing, giggling, rocking and rolling. There might be one last momentary chance that some desperate girl might look at him and go for him, turning his poor fortunes around suddenly, to make this Christmas great after all.
    But lifting himself up onto his elbows, he felt the room spinning a little. No. That wasn't going to work. Though his mind was sober, his body was not. If he did manage to get upright, he would probably find himself lurching into the kitchen like some kind of zombie, while any attempt at seduction would be viewed by the girls in there as the depraved groaning of the undead after fresh brains. 
    It was that time of the party where it was too late to drink, too late to party, but too early to get up and head on home. The Dead Zone, you might say. Joe picked up the glass resting next to him on the floor, immediately pleased to find it was water. If only he could return to his unconscious state now, drift back to