Jordan hated everything; wife left him for goddam grooming parlor, boss said he wasn’t meeting his quota.
He’d show them quota. He stormed into a bar, each person’s face hidden in the sins of their past.
“Keep ‘em coming,” he ordered, slapping down his credit card. He would join the sinners.
The bartender snorted. “One rule. Don’t pass out. Never pass out!”
Jordan flooded his pain with whiskey shots and beer; then someone with too white a grin bought more.
Severe abdominal pain woke him. Straps restrained him, tubes leading to the bar.
The bartender smiled. “You’re on the house.”
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alt="No More Littering by Arvee Fantilagan"
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