Judas had been some level of drunk for several days now. Never obscenely, but also never sober. He fell asleep in a dead-ass blur, woke up with his mouth feeling like the inside of a sock, and wetted it with the half bottle of flat beer still beside his bed from yesterday.
He was on the sofa with a collection of empties on the coffee table, dressed in underpants and a robe, an ashtray half full of butts tucked on the side. Easter was the worst fucking time of year, and it was impossible to forget, so he ate chocolate for breakfast and waved a bottle at Mary when she came in the door.
"Help yourself in the fridge. Bring me a new one," he said, before letting rip a stupendous belch.