Jamie watches the entire thing with a hazy sort of awe. This guy is amazing. His capacity for alcohol is amazing. His hair is amazing. Everything about him is amazing. Jamie wants to be this guy when he grows up. Jamie is also pretty sure that the booze is affecting his brain now.
He's so busy staring admiringly at the magnificence that is Squalo that he almost doesn't notice the fact that the bottle has landed squarely on him once again. Jamie gazes down at it with a conflicted expression. He knows he can't win this, and the logical portion of his brain tells him that he shouldn't even try, because that way lies only vomit.
That part of him is also pretty well pickled by now and being drowned out by the rest of his brain that is whooping enthusiastically about how awesome it would be if he could totally stomach two bottles of liquor. So Jamie picks the thing up, opens it (with some difficulty - intoxication turns everything into a childproof cap) and, per Squalo's previous instruction, tips it back and just starts chugging.
It takes about thirty seconds for his stomach to start rebelling, and he manages to ignore it for another ten or so before he just can't take anymore. He jerks forward, slams the three-quarters-full bottle onto the table and presses the back of his hand to his mouth. That and the distinctly greenish cast to his features are about all the warning you're getting, Squalo, sorry.
Jamie pretty much barfs more violently than he ever has in his life. He at least has the grace to turn away from the table before he does it (which means he might or might not end up getting it on someone's shoes, oops), but Squalo and everyone else present still has to listen to the melodic strains of a sixteen-year-old puking his guts out.
Once he gets it all out of his system, he woozily sits up, wipes his mouth, fixes Squalo with the most dignified stare he can muster, and slurs, "I give, man, you win."
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He's so busy staring admiringly at the magnificence that is Squalo that he almost doesn't notice the fact that the bottle has landed squarely on him once again. Jamie gazes down at it with a conflicted expression. He knows he can't win this, and the logical portion of his brain tells him that he shouldn't even try, because that way lies only vomit.
That part of him is also pretty well pickled by now and being drowned out by the rest of his brain that is whooping enthusiastically about how awesome it would be if he could totally stomach two bottles of liquor. So Jamie picks the thing up, opens it (with some difficulty - intoxication turns everything into a childproof cap) and, per Squalo's previous instruction, tips it back and just starts chugging.
It takes about thirty seconds for his stomach to start rebelling, and he manages to ignore it for another ten or so before he just can't take anymore. He jerks forward, slams the three-quarters-full bottle onto the table and presses the back of his hand to his mouth. That and the distinctly greenish cast to his features are about all the warning you're getting, Squalo, sorry.
Jamie pretty much barfs more violently than he ever has in his life. He at least has the grace to turn away from the table before he does it (which means he might or might not end up getting it on someone's shoes, oops), but Squalo and everyone else present still has to listen to the melodic strains of a sixteen-year-old puking his guts out.
Once he gets it all out of his system, he woozily sits up, wipes his mouth, fixes Squalo with the most dignified stare he can muster, and slurs, "I give, man, you win."