A Man Has To Become A Beast to Keep His Demons Quiet

The divergence from humanity begins. It is quiet, subtle, like a slow bleed. The ties that bind—mortgages, schedules, obligations—tighten with each passing day. Men, once wild and unchained, become domesticated. They wear the weight of responsibility like a straitjacket, their instincts dulled, their spirits muted. But there is a way back, even if only for a night. A way to keep the demons quiet, to rediscover the unvarnished truth of who they are. It is found in the bottle, in the smoke, in little white lines, and in the company of those who know them best.

They sat at a table, their eyes bright. The drinks went down fast, each one pushing them further into the world they had left behind. There was no talk of deadlines or dentist appointments, no hollow pleasantries. Here, the conversation was sharp and unfiltered.

They drank quickly, the liquor burning away the residue of their domesticated lives. It was a ritual, a shedding of skin. With each sip, they became more themselves, the men they had been before the world had tamed them.

The drugs are plentiful, passed around the table like a family buffet. They smoked and sniffed, the haze taking over their senses. The world sped up, the lines continued to run longer. They were boys again. There was no judgment here, no expectations. They were free to be broken, to be fucked up, to be human.

They were lost in the sway, a brief respite from the relentless race against time. Enough to remind them of who they were, of the fire that still burned within. The dawn came, intense and unwelcome. They stumbled out, their bodies heavy but their spirits light. The weight of their domesticated lives beginning to return, as it always did.

The divergence from humanity may be inevitable. But in those moments, they found something worth living for. For a night, they became the men they were meant to be.