the bar has become his den, his home away from home. he’s consuming alcohol like it’s his favorite past time, throwing back shot after shot. it’s the first time he’s been able to get out from under the suffocating grasp of his mother, whose become somewhat of an unofficial parol officer. the bartender’s getting an earful, whether they want it or not, when the jukebox kicks in, playing a tune he’s heard multiple times tonight.. “aye,” voice cuts through the third run of free bird. `“if I gotta hear lynyrd skynyrd one more fuckin’ time we’re gonna have problems.”
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