eddie clamps an unopened bag of crunch tators between his teeth. he’s got his left arm wrapped ‘round a paper grocery bag and his keys dangle from his right, because time is of the fucking essence and he’s got to set this shit down in his apartment immediately if he’s got any hope of surviving. it’s not life-or-death but this is life-or-something, and putting this bag down isn’t an option –– not when he’s on his last leg and the only thing that’ll bring him back on this abysmal morning-after’s a heaping helping of alcohol and salty snacks. he’s nearly got it, he’s nearly there –– the right key almost flips forcefully enough to land on the top of his index finger. it’s almost in the door, it’s––
“ mff–– fuggin’ damn it. ”
everything falls. except his trusty bag of tates. eddie tosses his hands up in defeat and stares at the squashed bag. bottle shards splice its interior and onto the carpet it bleeds out, slow and sweet. jack daniels, his fallen friend. eddie turns, chip bag still in his mouth, just in time to meet the eye of an unexpected hall companion.
“ whassup, ” he mumbles around foil wrapping. “ gravity’s bunk. ”