The Discoveries of Marcus Limley

Marcus Limley was slumped drunk, once again, in his master, oak chair. Within his grasp was a quill that dripped with ink onto the parchment that lay blank below, except for the random ink splotches that decorated the page.
Limley had had a theory that alcohol of any kind had the ability to enhance your thought patterns if you allowed it and kept a clear and focussed mind. As long as you didn't remind yourself that you were drinking alcohol that claimed to rot your brain, you could become the most intelligent person in existance.
However, on this particular night, Marcus Limley's mind was at a stand still; a blank. He felt unimaginative, uninfluenced, uninspired; that all the creative juices of his mind had seeped away, as the feeling had been for the past month or so.

He had written it all down before; his emotions, his cynical outlooks, his personal reviews of where he was and what had been happening, or what was commencing. He never wrote of romance; or sappy love stories that ended in tragedy for some, but the lovers lived happily ever after. No, he did not believe in that, for he believed there was no such thing.

His grandfather clock ticked loudly behind him, the pendulum swing from side to side in some form of hypnotising sway. It depressed Limley as he reminded himself that time would happily tick past him and not have the care of stopping for a moment and allowing him to catch up.
Limley grunted as he heaved his body from his chair. He swayed lightly when he was on his feet, and his stomach gurgled in confusion.

The clock suddenly chimed loudly, making Limley jump in surprise. The chiming continued for nine long strokes, and the echoing sound of metallic chiming made him shudder in agony. The chiming soon faded to a dull hum, and then ceasing to silence.
Limley ran his shaky finger over his brow in exasperation. He snatched his pitcher of wine and shot the remainder down his throat like a cheap beverage. He winced at the taste, grunted, extinguished the candle’s flame with his drunken breath, and continued to his bedroom.

He had arrived at his bedroom and grunted at the thought of the effort of undressing himself from his garments and then the possible option of getting changed into his night gown, or the more common option of sleeping in the nude.
He decided to perform none of the tasks and collapsed on his bedding, groaning as he soon discovered that collapsing onto a firm surface with a gut full of alcohol is not an intelligent idea.
The rotten taste of bile mixed with alcohol filled his mouth, forcing him to sit up and relieve the fluid from his mouth into his bedpan. That was also when he discovered that he hadn’t cleaned out his bedpan recently, and his servant, Timothy Boller, was not to blame either