- Joined
- Nov 29, 2022
- Messages
- 424
- Thread Author
- #141
updatedth
Placing my hand around the rim of the ice-cold glass of bourbon, I looked out at the tall, gaping citadel a few blocks away. Even the rainstorm, which was rapidly growing more wicked with each slash of wind, wasn't comparable to the cool satisfaction of the liquor going down my throat. I looked out at the street—blinding lights, blurred faces, and a cop. I wasn't sure when the long-awaited Festival was starting. That was, until I heard a faint sound in the distance. It seemed to be a classic melody from the early 1930s or twenties, echoing on and on throughout the lengthy and confusing maze-like walls of the Urban Center. Arising to my feet, I walked to the Plex, which just so happened to be where the pity party took place. I bought a drink from that one local's stand. Maybe two, I don't recall. It was a celebration, after all.
I woke up the next morning with a terrible headache. I once more forgot that I needed my crutches, leading me to trip and fall. I noticed a small bourbon shot on my work desk.
Hair of the dog that bit me.
I woke up the next morning with a terrible headache. I once more forgot that I needed my crutches, leading me to trip and fall. I noticed a small bourbon shot on my work desk.
Hair of the dog that bit me.
