"BASTARDS! I'M GOING TO BE A STAR!"

Peter's eyes bugged out, memories echoing down the years. "Wow, Richard's good. How has he gone undiscovered for this long?"

Withnail glared.

"Of course, he's nowhere near as good as you were. Are."

The glare deepened.

"Look, you were the one who scouted him, not me. Don't get angry when I actually approve of your decisions."

Daggers. Daggers were hurling into him. And he thought Withnail's smile could be dangerous.


"So the opening figures weren't exactly what we expected," he soothes the figure on the couch.

"No, they were exactly what the studio expected. And what we convinced them they wouldn't be!" He took another swig of ale, the familiar burn coasting down his throat. "Bastards. Can't even acknowledge genius when it's playing in a cinema near them." He threw the somehow empty bottle at the wall, basking in the musical quality of glass shattering.

Marwood patted him on the head. "Van Gogh wasn't appreciated in his own time either."

"What the fuck does a bastard who cut off his ear have to do with anything?" A thought lobbed him over the head, common sense oozing out of his ears. "Hmm…"

"Withnail, if you should try to cut any part of your body off, I will be most disappointed." Peter shot a glance at his crotch as he declared this.


"Booze. I want more booze." He reached his arms out, hands making grabby motions in parody of an infant's universal "pick-me-up" gesture.

"Withnail, maybe we should think about what our next project for the studio is going to be. Before we drain the world of all liquor."

An eyebrow, locked and loaded his way. "We?"

"If alcohol's going to be driven to extinction, I want a part in it. Like hunting the dodo, only liquid-y."

Withnail nodded, that sentence making perfect sense to him.


"We want the finest wines available to humanity. And we want them here and we want them now!" The line came from a pudgy man at most half their age, surrounded by a giggling gaggle of either good friends or drunken strangers.

Marwood blinked from his spot at the bar, rotating back upon the stool to face the shelves of bottles behind the counter. All the surreality of walking up the rabbit hole and coming down in Wonderland. "That was weird," He said slowly, hoping that somehow acknowledging the room's elephant would make it go away.

Withnail flicked an invisible speck off his glass. "Yes. Clearly we're not drunk enough."


He picked up one of the movie tabloids Withnail could never resist buying, curiosity getting the better of him. Eyes lit up. "Well, it seems Richard has had other movie offers." He threw it away, smiling inanely in spite of his headache. "Withnail, I think we've done a good deed."

A moan from the floor. "We are not making a habit of it."

"I think things worked out better this way."

"Stop thinking."

"Might as well tell you to stop boozing." He reached down and ruffled Withnail's hair, receiving a less-than-steady glare due to the victim's said boozing. "Do cheer up, though. Popular films have a short lifespan. Cult classics are the secret to immortality."


The rabble of college students is to blame for this knowledge, as they are for anything he really should not know.

"Withnail," he hisses. "We have our own drinking game."

"Do we?" He uncorks a new bottle, raising it to his lips. "I accept your vaguely implied challenge."


The stench of alcohol is still on his breath, but it's fading. "I've got an idea for our next earth-shattering project."

One hand is clutching his forehead as Peter waves him over with the other. "Come on. We'll discuss it over hangover cures."