She claimed he was my type, which I took to mean a little bit twisted.
A massive hollow swallowed.
Too drunk to stop.
I’m nihilistic, antagonistic, violent, horrible – but not obliterated, yet.
Room 453 smelled of beer, barbecue, and old leather.
The party was a bust, full of Valley chicks, jocks, and rockabillies.
Pig Mountain Valley in the middle of the South.
I prepared by swallowing a couple of quaaludes washed down with Jack Daniels.
Stirring the fiery liquid.
One drink away.
Light leeches out.