"You gotta admit...it'd be pretty damn hot," Dave began to slur his words as he took long mouthfuls of what remained of his seemingly bottom-less whiskey bottle.
He sat there laughing for a while, not able to control his thoughts, luckily able to control the status of his clothing. Lucky there wasn't a woman in the room, otherwise, the floor would be wearing his pants.

He sat, not saying anything for a while, just drinking. It would seem he was thinking of something, but in reality...his mind was very blank. As if his brain had gone to sleep and forgot to turn Dave's lights off. It was hardly unusual, he'd drink, sit around like a zombie and then eventually fall asleep...someone just had to check he was still breathing once every while.
Dave had three modes in life it seemed: drinking, zombie or sexual deviant. Neither of which were desirable except for the brief period between drinking and zombie/deviant.

That's when he seemed to be the real Dave, the genuine Dave. The kind Dave that actually cared, the Dave that spent hours upon hours perfecting the band's demo tapes. The Dave the was softly spoken, well-mannered and appeared as a gentleman. But it rarely lasted long. The best place for it was in the make-shift recording studio that the band had set up in a large spare room. But he was always so deep into his work that proper conversation didn't happen.

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