In no way was Leroy Starkweather a boozer.

An inconsiderate fussbudget? A quick-tempered milksop? A fathead lacking any patience whatsoever?

Those, the Guardsman was indeed, and he wore them with pride, akin to a champion wrestler and his title belt.

Nevertheless, a good-for-nothing befuddled boozer the male was not. Drinking away the aches and pains and remorseless displeasures of life is not in his nature - that was the coward’s way out, and just like a drunkard, he was not a coward. Much rather, he would face those that ail him with such ferocity, they could not see him coming. Why was getting completely plastered every now and then frowned upon by today’s society?

Thus, tonight’s drinkfest was not caused by a significant event of blue funk. The pressures of inter-group relations had nothing on the mongrel, nor did the many comings and goings of faces that he had not taken the time to meet personally. Perhaps this was not the case for his comrades, yet as of late, Leroy inhabited a world of his own leisure. It was a world tha blocked out the harsh, lousy nature of the outside realm, allowing one to wallow in nothing but their own thoughts and material goods. And if someone were to judge, let them; their trivial critiques had no value in his personal plane.

Apparently, time had moved on out there whilst the hound hung around in his rinky-dink hut. A new year rung in, leaving the last one to exist absolutely nowhere, except in memory. Memories did not last for eternity, though, and soon enough, when all intellegent creatures of this age moved on, 2018 would be forgotten. Tonight’s drinkfest was not in celebration of the past year.

Memories were the foundation for failure, and anyone who saw otherwise was a fool. One can not base the future’s potential on past events, for the future is a chaotic bumbling force that is unable to be predicted. And only insanity awaited those who immersed themselves in visions of the olden days. Thus, tonight’s drinkfest was not for the memories.

It was a “huzzah” the party. One could not predict the future, and living in the past was not adequate. The only remaining option was a thank you to the good times to be had in the present day. And so it was.

The doors had been opened, the worlds collided. Out of his personal pocket of reality, did he prudently step. The problems of reality were welcomed once again, as the canine made himself present for the first time in quite a whiles.

Someone had to inform Tanglewood of tonight’s drinkfest.

It was not completely based on alcohol, tonight’s celebration. The nickname drinkfest only came to life to make the cause seem a tad more fun. Whiskeys, ales, wines, and other beverages that a quadruped like himself should not consume lay on smaller coffee table, while various munchies (including the signature ‘Tanglewood S’more’) were hastily placed on a timeworn ottoman. And, of course, non-alcoholic beverages were available for the pansies.

Now he’d wait. Anticipating the groans in reaction to his presence, and his barely-cleaned environment. The groans and moans he had gotten used to, and tonight was a night for getting messy, so whomever criticizes the unwholesomeness wasn’t seeing things clearly.

A smirk broke upon the slipshod canine’s mug as a retort to the first arrival - Morgan. The pearly pooch always failed to disappoint Leroy with his pleasant presence. Every time the poofy fellow entered a room, the overall tone alleviated into a state of mirth, which meant he was perfect for parties such as this humble shindig.

In amusement would his amber hues observe Morgan’s sorcerous actions, fetching aqua with ease by using no more than brain waves. The endowment to manipulate fluids was what Morgan possessed, and what a power to have. The raw vigor that came with a gift like that was incredible, allowing the Samoyed to pull off some pretty gnarly shit. There was the time with the gator, in which he swindled the juices that operated in the reptile’s eyes into exploding; truly a brutal feat indeed. Tonight, though, his magic tricks were wielded as a tool for drinking plain old water, it appeared.

A compliment towards his living space was likely the last utterance the Guardsman expected to hear tonight, and eve in which everybody shared the confines of his humble, fairly disorganized home. He’d accept it, though. It was from Morgan, anyways, the same individual who enjoyed Leroy’s cooking.

“My friend,” he jovially began, “I’d say it’s an ode t’ the good times. Th’ crap for tomorrow and yesterday’s shit can be forgotten, ‘cause we celebrate tonight.”

“Drink-wise,” the gray-highlighted cur continued, “‘ve developed a controlled gusto of sorts for whiskey. Can’t be good for me, but man does it do the trick! ... If ya aren’t interested in booze, I made sure t’ grab some juices and stuff, if ya wanted anything more fancy than water.”

Consecutively, his attention put itself on his second guest, Crow. The most recent time the pair had met was back during that ill-fated junkyard trek, where Leroy invited most of Tanglewood to go dumpster diving, only for them to discover a sleeping buffoon.

“Came this close - sorry t’ disappoint”, a joking reply arose from his aged maw. “Make yourself comfy, if possible; grab a drink or three, if ya want.”

“’m not the best at hosting stuff,” he’d then mumble quietly, reacting to his irregularly blithe demeanour.