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.