He fumbled with the keys clumsily outside the apartment , the dimness of the lamp above his chipped wooden door making a complicated job even harder. At last. His hand grasped the right pair, and he lowered his eyes to the level of the key-hole and made sure he inserted the key the right way the first time - he had replaced the lock a dozen times already, and he had no wish to pay that greedy landlord any more than his weekly dues, which, he thought ironically, he would have to pay the day after. Ah well, it was only day after, and he could worry about it tomorrow. Today, no - he corrected himself, glancing at the watch - tonight, tonight was going to be glorious. New Year's Eve, the herald to the new year, a new beginning. Today was the start of him turning over a new leaf. Seven failed attempts didn't convince him otherwise.

He shouldered open the door, and, walking into the small, thousand square foot flat that he proudly could claim as his, closed it behind him. His glance, more out of habit than anything else, strayed to the small built in bar that took up the whole right corner of his pad. There were six rows of bottles on top of the wood panelled bar - a good investment that, he thought lovingly, for after all he did not have much to spend his little money on - and all the bottles seemed to be corked and full. He peered a little closer. He had opted for a little variety last time - staring into the dour liquor seller's face, he had challenged him to produce the best that the shop had. Apparently these were it. But he would see later. Later, after it was the New Year. Tonight, he promised himself again, tonight was going to be a tribute to sobriety.

He stumbled to the armchair, one of two chairs that comprised the only furniture, apart from a small cot and a refrigerator, that crowded his space, and sank down into it, revelling in the softness. Another good investment. He liked to think of himself as a bargain-getter, able to sneak great deals on great stuff from places that no one even knew about, and as he glanced around his flat - the inexpensive but loud music system and the refrigerator with the small but adequate television perched comfortably on top of it - he wondered if he was missing something. Maybe he should be doing more with his life. But what more? Again, his eyes drifted to the bar. Ah, his pride and joy. And the bottles that awaited him. Wait, he reminded himself. He sneaked a glance at the clock. Another two hours. Two hours. A bit much with nothing to wet the throat, wasn't it? A little bit won't hurt, he told himself, as he picked himself up and moved slowly towards that little haven.

A shot glass lay by one of the bottles, the only glass in sight. Good, he nodded approvingly, that would help keep him in check. Not that he couldn't keep himself in check, he exclaimed indignantly - it was just, this helped. He removed the seventeen dollar corkscrew - another luxury he, a connoisseur, prided himself upon - from the top drawer of the bar table and sat down on one of the authentic barstools - one of three - that he had set up in front of the bottles. Then, slowly, lovingly, he set down the corkscrew and picked up the first bottle. Not bad, he thought, glancing at the label. An experiment, to be sure. He relished the thought of it.

He twirled the bottle in his hands, and then set it down horizontally on the bottle holder. He then settled for a wait of a few minutes. They passed quickly. Then, screwing his eyes in concentration, he turned the corkscrew into the bottle and began to turn. Slowly now. Just until it reaches three fourth of the way, and then stop. That way, no fragments of the cork polluted the drink. The very idea of it happening disgusted him.

There. He had managed it successfully. Smiling, he removed the cork, set it aside with the screw still sticking out, and poured out a little of the amber liquid into the shot glass. He then snuck a guilty look at the clock. More than an hour left, easily. He took a tiny sip. Best moderate himself. Ah screw it, it's just a shot glass, and it's one fifteenth of the first bottle. What are you, a kid? He downed the glass in one go, and poured himself another one. That went down quickly as well. So did the third. And the fourth. He blinked. That was fast. The first bottle was over. So quick? He sneaked another glance at the clock, and sighed in satisfaction. The numbers were as clear as day, about an hour left.

Come on. He pulled himself together. A hardened drinker - no, not drinker, he corrected himself, a connoisseur - like you, and you're worried about a few glasses. Hell, he knew people who drank them by the pint and still walked as straight as an arrow when the coppers pulled them over. One bottle indeed. And an hour left.

One. Two. Three. Two bottles remaining. His vision was starting to blur. Or was that his spectacles? He reached for them in order to clear them, and then realised with a silly grin that he didn't wear spectacles. Got to get those eyes checked then. He snickered to himself.

He got up, and moved closer to the clock. Thirty minutes left. They would even have that countdown on TV, with all the fireworks and celebrations and the timer that went down till the last second. Should he follow that? He thought about it for a moment. Nah. His clock was trusty enough. He moved closer to it and took another look. Less than thirty minutes. Time for another bottle. He could definitely handle that.

The bottle count whittled down to one. The room started to sway, and he began to see two of everything. He held up his fingers in front of his face, and let out a hiccup. Now it became three. Funny, that. The clock was three as well. The number of bottles had tripled. He reached out for support, and grasped the bar table.

Just a few more minutes. A few more minutes. And three bottles. Or one. Anyway, there wasn't long to wait. He couldn't risk turning his head to look at the clock. He'd just wait for the twelve chimes then - thank God for that feature. Twelve chimes. Come on, twelve chimes.

Just one more glass then. Not much. He was already slightly woozy, and going off to sleep in another few minutes - it didn't really matter. He poured the last shot glass down. All the bottles were finished, weren't they? He swept his hands in front of his face, and promptly knocked down three of the bottles. Wonderful. Now he would have to clear up the mess. But first things first. It was going to be the New Year in a few minutes.

He could feel the drowsiness coming, feel himself slipping into that familiar warm haze that he enjoyed so much. Come on, just hold on for a bit. The clock started chiming. Yes, yes. He was going to keep that damn resolution after all. One. Two. Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight.

Was that nine? Shit, he had lost count. Oh well, he would know when it stopped. And then it would be time. Another. Damn, he was slipping. Slipping, slipping. He started to feel nice and warm. The bar stool wasn't that uncomfortable. Or was that the floor? It was cold. The floor then. And then, blessed oblivion. He didn't hear the chiming stop.

Damn clock. Too fast.

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