Somewhere over the horizon, dark clouds are gathering over small bar as a group of gentlemen usher themselves in after a long, frustrating day at the office. One of them recounts his day, lamenting over mountains of paperwork and an inbox of emails that seems never ending. Another knocks back a shot of whisky and tells of his former girlfriend, with whom he has just split, and is met with cheers of approval. “It’s about time,” says one of them. “We should celebrate,” adds another. The rest nod and raise their glasses.

The dark clouds above begin to churn and swirl, for it’s a Friday night and everyone in attendance is starting to see the gears of debauchery turn behind each other’s eyes. Sleeves begin to roll up, ties begin to loosen, and the bartender serves up another round. There is a funnel cloud of drunken destruction taking shape above this quaint corner pub. The rest of town doesn’t know it yet, but a bronado is about to touch down.

A bronado (often called a guyphoon in other parts of the world) is a group of men that come together, rallied by the common goal to get so absurdly and dangerously drunk that they leave a trail of unholy destruction in their wake. There are many situations that could spur a group of guys into such a whirlwind of intoxication, but the results are usually the same. They will tear through the streets like a horde of crazed undead, getting chummy with doormen, shoving their way to the bar to order drinks, starting bathroom brawls and hitting on girls in front of their boyfriends.

The next day, it’s as if an actual tornado sucked the band of friends up and hurled them all over town like pieces of debris. Some wake up at home in their beds, likely still dressed in their clothes from work, but safe and mostly intact. Others come to consciousness in some shrubbery in front of the library, or leaned up against a dumpster behind a Chinese restaurant. Someone wakes up in the bed of an unidentified woman, who is likely in the shower hoping the strange man in her bed will just leave without confrontation.

One unlucky soul opens his eyes in an especially disoriented state. The bright, humming fluorescent lights strain his vision. His oily cheek peels up from smooth, cement floor. His jaw is painfully stiff. His lip is swollen and crusted with dried blood, but for some reason he can’t bring his hands to his face to inspect the damage. He is in handcuffs, and soon realizes he has spent the night in a holding cell at the police station.

By the next morning, the bronado has lifted up back into the clouds, leaving the establishments in its path to recover. Vomit must be scrubbed from the floor around the toilets, urine must be mopped from the corner in the back, and the pieces of a splintered bar stool must be swept up and disposed of. For the time being, they can feel safe. But in a few weeks they will need to batten down the hatches once again, because one of our main characters just got engaged.