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He’s got huge arms that look like hams. Tattoos. Piercings and a long ZZ TOP beard. He’s loud and full of himself. A braggart. I loathe him immediately. Whiskey after whiskey, man this guy can drink. He’s a big boy. Ronald Reagan was our best President ever. I get him to despise chick drinks with me. We start ordering them. Sex On The Beach. Scorpions, Stingers and Grasshoppers. Creme de menthe, Goldschlagger and Jägermeister. I drop a couple percosets into the big bastard’s snakebite.

He’s stumbling and slurring as he tells me he’s gotta piss. I steer him away from the men’s and towards the back door. I hid the tire iron so no one would steal it. I look at him and tell him he’s hammered. I tell him he needs a bump. He looks at me like yeah he knows.

I give him my bullet and he hits it. He hands it back to me and his eyes begin to cross. I see his ankles twist and I swing up on his way down. I hear meat. I feel meat. I tell myself mine is a star studded existence. I just broke this prick wide open. I hammer at the base of his neck. I kick his fucking torso and walk the few blocks to my car.

I feel better. I am festooned with gore. I’m still sad about that cat, but it will never happen again. I feel better.

I am Myrus.

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