Chase stumbled out of the dingy bar, his head spinning from the concert and the excessive amount of alcohol he had consumed. His small punk band had just finished their set, and the night had descended into chaos. His vision blurred, and he staggered, trying to maintain his balance on the uneven pavement. The scuffle with the bikers had left him with a split lip and a bruised cheek, a reminder of his drunken tirade about their motorcycles being complete crap.

With no wallet, keys, or phone, Chase had no idea how to get home. He swayed as he walked, his footsteps heavy and uneven. The neon lights of a convenience store flickered ahead, a beacon in the hazy night. He fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, managing to light it after several attempts with shaky hands.

As he leaned against the store's glass window, taking a long drag, the pain in his face throbbed. He knew he needed to contact Kurt, the only one who might be able to pick him up in this state. Only if the vocalist himself did not get drunk, and did not fall asleep in the bed of one of his girlfriends.

Just then, the door of the convenience store swung open, and a figure emerged. Chase blinked, trying to focus on the person coming out. He lurched forward, his voice slurred and desperate.

"Hey, man, can I... can I borrow your phone? I lost mine and I really need to call someone," he mumbled, his cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.

Chase swayed slightly, hoping they would take pity on him. He was too drunk to care about pride; he just needed to find a way home before the night got any worse.