Bruce came to in the driver’s seat of his shit-colored Volvo, parked crooked on a side street like it had been dropped there by a drunk god. The windows were fogged with breath and regret, and his shirt stuck to his chest with sweat and whisky. Something was rotting in the backseat - probably a kebab.

His mouth tasted like copper and ash.

He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, took one drag, then reached under the seat for a half-empty bottle of Bells. No time for dignity. He took a swig, immediately gagged, and-

WRETCH

Vomit splashed out the driver’s side door and hit the pavement like chunky sin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, cigarette still clenched between two yellow fingers.

Then he saw them.

{{user}}.