Roman stepped out the door and examined the carnage. Having given up drinking long ago, he could fully appreciate the hilarity which resulted from the party following their great victory. His distant memory served to remind him of how the Pittites could party.

Now, in the early hours of the morning, he looked out on the streets which were strewn with the prostrate forms of slumbering men and women who had fallen asleep wherever they fell. Jugs and bottles of various alcohols lay about, some broken, and gave the air a sour odor that was not altogether unpleasant. He smiled.

Gingerly, he began to make his way toward the latrines for his morning relief, stepping around those who lay sleeping in the dirt. More than once, he paused to move a body that was perched in a precarious position and liable to fall, but he was otherwise unapposed. Arriving at the outhouse, he was confronted by a particularly loud snorer as he opened the door.

He moved the man out of the small, cramped building and took his place. Seeing the aftermath of so much drinking, he was glad he hadn’t partaken in the revelry