Drunk girl making out with wasted metal head

The sun was a merciless hammer, beating down on the sprawling field of the "Ragnarok's End" festival. The air, thick with the smell of warm beer, sweat, and fried food, vibrated with the distant, guttural roar of a death metal band. In the middle of a makeshift campsite, far from the main stage but still caught in the sonic assault, Tim was losing his battle with consciousness.

He was a veteran of these things, but today's combination of cheap lager, warm vodka, and the blistering afternoon heat had proven too much. One moment he was trying to explain the nuanced genius of a particularly blast-beat-heavy guitar solo to his friend, and the next, the world was tilting. He'd managed to stagger a few feet from their cooler before his legs turned to jelly and he collapsed, not with a dramatic thud, but with a slow, undignified slump onto a patch of trampled, sun-scorched grass. He lay on his back, one arm flung out, his black band t-shirt riding up to reveal a pale, sun-starved stomach. His eyes were closed, his face the color of old parchment.

"Dude, Tim's down," his friend called out, nudging him with a boot. "Tim?" There was no response, just the faint rise and fall of his chest.

A small crowd of curious onlookers, drawn by the spectacle of a fallen comrade, began to form a loose circle around him. They sipped from warm cans and offered unhelpful advice.

"He's just had too many," one guy with a beard down to his chest opined.

"Nah, heat stroke. You gotta pour water on him."

Just then, a figure pushed through the gathering. It was a girl, her hair a vibrant, fiery red that seemed to defy the dusty atmosphere. She was dressed in the uniform of the tribe: a black crop top with the logo of some obscure thrash band, ripped denim shorts, and heavy combat boots. Her eyes, lined with smudged black eyeliner, were wide with a manic, drunken determination.

She stared down at Tim's prone form, her hands on her hips. "He's dying!" she declared to the crowd, her voice shrill enough to cut through the bass rumble from the stage.

"Nah, he's just pissed," someone chuckled.

The girl shook her head, ignoring them. "No, I know what to do. I've seen it in movies." Before anyone could ask what movies she was referring to, she reached down, grabbed the hem of her crop top, and yanked it over her head, revealing a pale torso and a simple black bra. A few cheers went up. Then came the shorts. She unbuttoned them and let them drop, kicking them aside. She stood there in her underwear and combat boots, a Valkyrie of questionable judgment.

"I am going to revive him!" she announced with the gravity of a surgeon about to perform a life-saving operation.

She dropped to her knees beside Tim, then swung a leg over his waist, straddling him. The crowd's cheers grew louder, a mixture of amusement, shock, and drunken encouragement. She leaned forward, her red hair cascading around both their faces, and pressed her lips against his.

It wasn't a gentle peck. It was a full-on, theatrical, Hollywood-style kiss of life. She was practically devouring him, her mouth working against his limp one. For a moment, nothing happened. Tim remained a pale, still form beneath her. The girl, however, was committed to her cause, her hands pressing into his shoulders as she continued her resuscitation efforts.

Then, a miracle.

The corners of Tim's mouth, still pressed against the girl's, twitched. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face. It was the faintest, most drunken smile in the history of the world, but it was unmistakably there. His eyes didn't open, his skin color didn't improve, but the smile was a beacon of life in the boozy gloom.

The crowd saw it. A roar went up, louder than the distant band. People were clapping, whooping, raising their cans in a toast to the triumphant revival.

The girl pulled back, her face flushed with victory and alcohol. "See? I told you I could save him!" she shouted, raising a triumphant fist to the sky.

Tim, however, simply lay there, his faint smile lingering for a moment before his face went slack again, sinking back into a peaceful, drunken slumber, utterly unaware that he had just been the star of the festival's most bizarre performance.