He reached for his half empty glass but misjudged the distance and knocked it over, spilling the contents all over the bar. The bartender calmly came over with a rag, picked up his glass, and wiped up the mess. Henry tried to talk, but no words came out of his mouth. Seemingly unable to speak, he motioned for a refill.

“Sorry man,” the bartender said, putting the now empty glass under the bar. “That’s it.”

“I’ll take ‘nother,” Henry slurred.

“Can’t do it, buddy. You’ve had enough.”

“I’ll take ‘nother,” Henry repeated.

“Nope.” The bartender shook his head. “That’s it for tonight. Go on home and sleep it off. You come back tomorrow and I’ll serve you all you want.”

Henry was visibly upset, but in no real shape to do anything about it. He tried to get off the stool and lunge for the bartender, but lost his balance and fell face first on the bar, then slid off and fell on the floor. It took every bit of effort he could muster to scramble to his feet and steady himself on a nearby table. The bartender was unimpressed. He’d been in the business a long time and Henry wasn’t the first drunk he’d seen fall off a barstool. He looked at Henry and pointed to the door. Henry, barely able to keep his balance, motioned that he understood, turned and stumbled out into the night.

Henry slowly staggered to his truck, which was in the parking lot next to the bar, and upon reaching it, swayed back and forth uncontrollably while he dug in his jeans pocket for his keys. Suddenly, and out of nowhere, he was struck hard from behind with a heavy closed fist. He staggered forward and fell onto the hood of the truck, then slid off and onto the ground.

Chad walked out of the shadows and stood over the now nearly unconscious Henry. “Ain’t so tough now, are ya, you old son of a bitch.” He began kicking Henry relentlessly and after several vicious blows to Henry’s torso and face, Chad was out of breath and had to stop. He looked down at the now fully unconscious Henry, and then spit on him before finally slinking back into the shadows from where he’d come.

Henry was unaware of how long he’d been unconscious and had only slightly come to his senses when he heard the faint sound of what seemed like a dog sniffing. He had been lying on his left side and groggily opened his eyes in time to see a small, mangy dog sniff his legs and boots, then lift its leg and urinate on him. Henry lowered his head back to the concrete and closed his eyes, knowing the taste of total defeat.

Henry’s next conscious memory was stumbling out the front door of the liquor store with a bottle in a paper sack and staggering down the street. Beaten, face swollen and bloodied, he climbed into the driver’s seat of his old pickup truck, and after several attempts, got it started. He jammed it into gear and the truck leapt and jerked from the curb and headed off into the darkness. He drove out of town and veered off the road and into the desert, going another three miles before finally coming to a stop.