“Oh, man,” Lester mutters, riding the high of his most recent masterpiece–the FIB score–and his homemade, wild moonshine that he’s drunk just about a quarter of.

It’s almost 3 in the morning at this point, but he’s too inebriated to care about what he has to do tomorrow. He figures he can take a vacation for a week or so, let things cool down. At least, that’s the excuse he’ll use.

He picks up his empty glass, realizing that there’s nothing but a single drop left, and glances at his bed, considering taking a nap. He limps over, collapsing onto the blankets and sighing in utter contentment.

“I’m drunk as a skunk…”