Category: Drunken Wormhole

Duggan regained his balance. He was standing in a bathroom; it was somehow familiar. His attacker hadn’t followed him in, just shoved him through. Duggan turned and twisted the bolt on the door, locking it.

His head spun for a moment, and he stepped towards the sink. He twisted the right hand tap, ran his hand under the water and then splashed it up into his face. He stared into the mirror, collecting his thoughts. A sticker on the bottom corner of the mirror caught his eye and he focused on it for a moment.

His head cleared, he turned back to the door. He listened for a moment, his breathing slow and calm. Positioning himself, he unlocked it and pulled it open, ready to deal with the crazy old man. In front of him was an empty hallway. He closed the door, and glanced room. Locking the door once more, he stepped towards another door and pulled on the handle. It didn’t open, seemingly locked. His eyes focused on the lock.

He placed his hands to his forehead, rubbing briefly and then brushed back his hair. Pulling his key ring off his belt, he flipped through it until he found a key labelled ‘Janitorial Master’. The key slid into the lock and disengaged the cylinders smoothly. He pulled the door open, revealing a supply closet.

“I was in the bar, and now I’m at work. What the fuck.” His voice was calm and quiet. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “And it’s Tuesday.”

His phone began to beep as text messages started coming in at a rapid pace. The voice mail indicator flashed on the screen. He had 16 new messages.

He shook his head and went back to the sink, washing his face again.

Gorman held the bottle up to the light. “Well, that’s just about half the bottle. And according to the letter, I should save the other half.” He paused dramatically. “For the Future.” He raised his glass towards Duggan.

“Right. The future. Does the letter mention the next bottle?”

“Believe it or not, it does.” Gorman reaches down under the table again, into the little cabinet that has been installed there. “I think that’s the main reason I’m playing along. My uncle had good taste.” Duggan toyed his glass and set it back on the table, a little bit left in it. Gorman pulled out another bottle and set it on the table. “I’ll grab us some fresh glasses. No point tainting the bouquet.” He smirked as he said it, his tone raised; he stood up from the table and walked towards the front of the building.

“John. I’m surprised to see you here. This is unexpected.”

Duggan turned, seeing an older gentleman approaching the table from the rear of the building. The man looked quite a bit like James Gorman, though his hair was grey and his skin wrinkled. Duggan narrowed his eyes, and he blinked, shaking his head. “James? The fuck?” He closed his eyes for a moment, set his hands on the table, and then opened them again, looking at the new arrival. “You look must be his…” He trailed off. “I thought he said he didn’t have any family left. I guess that makes you the ‘dead uncle’, right?”

“Actually, yes. Though not the way you think. John, it’s been a long time, and while I’m glad to see he has a friend, I wasn’t expecting you here tonight. This complicates things.” He reached out and picked up Duggan’s glass, raising it to his lips and finished the glass in a single gulp.

Duggan frowned, his posture changing. He stood up and stepped out of the booth, standing a foot away from James’ ‘Dead Uncle’, examining his face. “The resemblance is strong. Since it was your bottle, I can hardly object to you taking a share. Though you could have just poured a fresh glass.” His stance had widened, his weight over the balls of his feet.

“True, but this saved some time.” The older gentleman tossed the glass at Duggan, who caught it reflexively. His hands full, his reactions were slowed as the man brought both his hands together, clapping him hard in the head. “I’m sorry about this John, I hope you don’t land in the middle of next week.”

His head fogged by the combination of the alcohol and the unexpected blow, he shifted into a defensive pose, as the man threw his full weight at him, shoving him through the doorway behind him. His sense of balance shifted and he felt himself falling backwards.

Despite the allegations against Gorman, he and Duggan had remained friends. They weren’t as close since the school had been putting pressure on Duggan to provide evidence that Gorman had been involved in the disappearance. That had understandably strained things between them.

It was a few days after Duggan’s birthday, and Gorman had invited him out for a drink. He’d skipped out on the party that Duggan’s staff had thrown for him the weekend before and felt a bit of regret about it. He’d known he shouldn’t attend, given how some of them felt about him.

They had met in a dive bar, down in the bad part of town. It wasn’t the faux dive bar where hipsters hung out, it was a legitimate down on the luck sort of place. A place that hadn’t been bought up by the forces of Gentrification and Urban Renewal. Duggan had been surprised that they’d been given a booth in the back, and more surprised when James had reached down under the table and pulled out a bottle of decent scotch and set it on the table.

“They let you bring in your own booze?”

“We have an arrangement. I’m renting this booth.” He poured the scotch into a pair of glasses. “And a room in the back.”

“Why the hell would you want to do that?” Duggan picked up his glass and sipped it, smiling as the liquid danced it’s way down his throat.

“It was easier than changing bars all the time. It made sense. I made some deals and now I don’t need to worry. University ID won’t get in the door.” James chuckled. “Well, with the obvious exception of yourself.” He held out his glass to Duggan.

“Seriously? What kind of cash are you paying for that kind of treatment.”

“Less than you’d think. I wasn’t exactly accurate when I said I was renting the booth and the room in the back. It would be more accurate to say they’re the only part I’m not renting.” He gazed deeply into the glass and then tipped it back, swallowing it in one gulp.

“You bought this place?”

“Inherited, apparently. From my namesake uncle. Who I’d never heard of, before his lawyer showed up at my door. He left me this building, a collection of fine wines, and a shitload of money. And some really weird letters.” James poured the scotch into their glasses. “Including the letter that told me that we needed to drink this bottle tonight.”

“We? I’m mentioned in these letters?”

“No, actually quite the opposite. It says I should drink this bottle alone here tonight.”

“Then why am I here?”

“You really think I’m going to follow the instructions of a dead ‘Uncle’? I’m grateful, but I’d rather not drink alone.”

It had been nearly a year since the disappearance. They hadn’t found a body, they hadn’t found any evidence or any witnesses. That hadn’t stopped the rumours. They’d had a fight, he’d blacked out, she’d gone missing. To say that people were suspicious of his story was an understatement. The hostility had grown over time, as he had tried to live his life, attend classes and deal with the hole in his life where she had been. He’d been trying to function, but it had gotten progressively harder.

He’d gone out for drinks a few times, with the few people that were still willing to hang out with him, but when they’d called it a night, he’d kept on drinking. Every so often, his drinking would combine with circumstances to create an “incident”, and he’d need to find another bar to drink in. Preferably one further from the school, were he was less likely to run into people who knew his story. This usually worked fora while, though never for more than a few weeks.

And then one night, shit got really weird.

“Let me get this straight, you’re pounding on his door to tell him his fiancée’s parents are going to murder him if he doesn’t get her home immediately” she paused, grinning “and he tells you that he just came out of the closet. And neither of you find that funny.” She quirked her eyebrow, “at all?”

“I would, if I knew where she was. Maybe.” He sighed and rubbed his head. The coffee was helping a bit. “I’m worried about her.”

“You two broke up, didn’t you? Why is it your problem where their spoiled brat ended up?” She frowned at James and then turned to the other man. “And what the hell Duggan, why are you playing their messenger boy?”

The grizzled man rolled his eyes. “Campus security, kinda my job. Faculty upset about missing student daughter, that’ll be paperwork.” His tone was light, but his muscles were tensed. “I’d really like to avoid another incident.” He quoted with his fingers. “The last one, do you know how many hours I spent staring at the footage?”

“John, look, I don’t remember much. I don’t even really remember the fight that Anna here has clearly heard about.”

“You don’t remember the fight? You don’t remember how she slapped you in front of a handful of your friends, and shoved you into the bushes. How can you not remember that!?”

“Oh, well, that does explain these.” James slides back his shirt sleeves and rubs his finger along a series of scratch marks on his forearms.

“Damn it man.” Duggan reaches down into his knapsack and pulls out a red kit. He unzips it and pulls James’ arms across the cafe counter towards him. His manner is mechanical as he inspects the wounds. He taps his earpiece once and resumes his examination. “Record. Medical supply log. James Gorman. Minor scratches on both arms. Application of disinfectant and the goo. Both containers still fairly full. End and mark for transcription.”

“Alcohol is the cause of and solution to all of life’s problems.” – Homer Simpson –

For James Arthur Gorman, it certainly started his problems. Gorman was invited out to a party to celebrate his recently published paper; not normally a drinker, the good news and lack of stress encouraged some indulgence. A whirling dance of images and sounds later, he wakes up to a pounding in his skull and on his door. Disoriented, he attempts to make sense of where he is. He’s on the ground, in a small space; reaching out his arms find the walls with ease. He can easily touch the four walls. Reaching up, he finds cloth above him. His hands continue to explore the room, eventually finding the something cold. It shifts and the wall behind him falls backwards, spilling him out into the light, burning into his brain. The image that floats above his tightly shut eyes is familiar to him, but somehow wrong. Then he realizes it’s wrong because while it’s his living room, it’s upside down. Except it can’t be, so he must be. The pounding continues, louder now.

His mouth opens and he tries to speak. The sound that comes out is incoherent, but the pounding stops. At least the pounding outside his head.

“James, are you in there? Open the damn door!”

James; that was him. He should answer. He should get up, and find water and pull himself together.

“James, we need to talk. What the hell happened last night?”

Last night – that was a blur. He tried to remember, but the images wouldn’t hold still. “I, we, celebrated…” his voice sounded hoarse but he was able to form words. “… I woke up in the closet. I’m about half way out so far.”