The french onion soupescade

The last time I saw him drunk was yesterday. He was lolling about in an inflated bed, which was strange because the sun had set three days ago and the pool was drained dry. His head was rolling from side to side as he tried to escape the visions that were assaulting him. I cried out - "Beware the shrimp!" and this seemed to reach him because he rolled off the bed and began to crawl towards the organically curved sides of the pool. I laughed. I laughed a lot. He was drunk, the world had been dark for three days, and there wasn't a single fucking shrimp in sight.
"Sir, it's time," said the butler. He'd been standing there for a long time, and must have said that at least four more times than I could remember. I finally looked at him. He was dressed in a black tuxedo, on which several different playing cards were stapled. I'd stapled them myself. While he had lain on the floor, unconscious. The reason he was knocked out was because I'd knocked him out myself when he'd entered my bedroom unannounced. I had stood on the ladder that was propped up by the door for over three hours, waiting, with a massive Ming vase held above my head. When he'd finally opened the door and peered within, seeking my supposedly comatose form in the gloom, I'd brought the Ming vase down with audible relief. To tell the truth my arms had fairly been on fire, and the vase had begun to tremble wildly in the air. The hippodrome