In this rank hall of misfits, the dead had risen again.

I took one last look from atop the stage and then stepped down. Mortal, once more.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The bar smelled like pickled eggs and stale piss, which produced a stinging nostalgia. These were my favorite haunts. Places where you could be your most derelict self and no one gave a shit. I closed my eyes and let the babble of conversation reverberate inside my ears, catching snippets within the general drone. It was a soothing sound, mindless. It conjured memories from the countless hours spent in rooms just like this one, hunched over a cold, sweaty mug of pale yellow beer. Watching sports highlights on blurry screens while the mind melds into the babble of talk so much like a gurgling river. Flowing with whiskey.

The crack of gunfire startled me, and I looked up to see a line of people slamming empty shot glasses down against the bar.

“Keep ’em coming!” Caspian shouted, throwing his arm around the woman on his right. A roar of approval followed, and the bartender turned a bottle of Fireball upside down.

Tastes like heaven, burns like hell.

Takes you to hell, too.

Solomon peeled away from the bar, his eyes watering, and shouldered his way toward me.

“This must suck for you,” he said, eyeing my soda water with mild disgust.

“Eh, what are you going to do?”

“Is it hard?”

I took a sip. It tasted like corroded metal. “Man, everything’s hard.”

“For sure.” Solomon’s once-white concert shirt had yellowed around the collar and under the arms and was now a half-size too small. “Booze makes it easier, though.”

I still hear the screams from that night years before. Hers, mine. I swear they get louder and clearer every time they enter my mind. “Not for me. For me, it makes everything much harder.”

“Yeah.…” Solomon drifted off, his eyes losing focus as he watched his thoughts. There’s nothing more terrifying to a drunk than someone going dry.

Caspian walked up holding two beers; the cling-on he’d left watched wistfully from the bar. He handed one to Solomon.

“Cheers, mates,” he said, and we all clinked glasses; me admittedly feeling like a lame third wheel. Caspian took down nearly half his Miller Lite in three gulps.

“Anyone seen Kevin?” Solomon asked.

Caspian’s laugh expelled halitosis. “Saw him take some hood rat outside for a good rutting. Ain’t nothing changed with that one.”

He looked at me with a scowl of disappointment. “What about you?” he said. “What’s it like imprisoned behind a white picket fence?”

I felt the heat rise to my face. “Shit, my life’s good, man. Living the American Dream.”

Caspian slapped Solomon on his back just as he was taking a sip, creating another stain on his filthy shirt. “More like a fucking nightmare. Cutting jingles for commercials, right? How’s that for rock ’n roll.”