It wasn’t often that Wes treated himself to much of anything — 6 days of the week he was working, and it was only because his boss complained he was at work far too much, that he had a mandatory day off. And it was on this day, a Friday, that he came down to Bridgeport Bar, feeling restless with not much to do at home. He was sat at a table closely packed with others, not sure yet what else he wanted to do with the rest of his night.
As early as it was though, there was always a drunk or two milling about, and just as he was finishing his pint, he casually watched one get booted from the bar. On his way out, the man stumbled as he walked, and crashed —quite cartoonishly — headlong into a telephone post. “Oof. He’ll feel that in the morning.”
@bartonstart
“Glad I’m not him.” Grace snorted behind him as she took a sip of her drink. Bourbon always leaves a good punch to the gut. Especially for someone undead like her. “As much as I like to drink and attempt to get drunk, I try not to make a fool out of myself. Don’t you agree?”
