I smell puke.
To be more accurate, I smell puke, gin, cigarettes, and more puke.
There’s a guy passed out at the bar next to me, and I’ve been trying to wake him up for the last fifteen or so minutes to no avail. Last call was half an hour ago, and this son of a bitch is still passed out on the bar counter, snoring away under a puddle of his own vomit like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Typical Friday night at the Mushroom.
I let out another exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as I leave his immobile body to go look for Rory, tonight’s bouncer, to help me out with this douche.
The last few weeks have been shit.