Derry, Maine — July of 1989.

The old television crackled with the screams of the protagonist of the shitty horror film that someone had put on, the crescendo of the music as the killer stalks on, filling the dimly lit alley-way, with the sound. A thin haze of cigarette smoke floats around, empty and half-full cans of cheap beer on the floor: cans of beer stolen from shops.

Henry chatters annoyedly about the film's dumb blondes who got killed to Victor and Belch: both of which are drunk enough that they don’t seem to mind Henry's usual rambling, simply looking between each other and at the movie every so often. Patrick sits on the floor near the entrance, silently smoking his cigarette as his gaze flickers back-and-forth between the television and the slurry conversations.

Patrick sighs as he exhales a plume of smoke, looking at his drunk friends, a subtle smile tugging at his lips as he snickers at them being stupid. He was probably the only one with a high alcohol tolerance . He’s had so much that at this point, only the hardest of hardest substances could make him feel something.