Say boy, hand me over another shot of that booze
His head's swimming.
There's about 4 empty bottles of vodka that a Lt. Czechko gave him as a debt 20 years ago on the floor.
The other 2 are on the table.
It's too quiet in the apartment, and he can't the silence. The TV has been replaying coverage of Kobik Steve, which includes Miles, so it's unplugged.
The vinyl is crackling near him, the disc over a bottle ago.
So, his beyond stupid alcohol stupor has replaced the white noise with talking to a ghost. "Another for you." He said, taking another burning down. "About the only thing I can do right."
That's not true, the ghost replies.
He hmphs. "It is. Dying at the wrong times. Maybe this is Hell." He poured another.
Maybe you should stop drinking.
"Died after Sin. This whole thing's a fever dream." He downed the last of the bottle.
Would be nice to blame it all on delusion.
"Hell isn't delusion. It's karma." He got up, swaying. "And I have so much to pay for." He stumbled, moving to turn off the record, as he tripped over the table, and fell onto the floor.
"You damn idiot." He hears the ghost talk as his vision swims with his head.
"Only for you."