Franco was getting plastered. Hammered. Sloshed.
Whatever pain he’d feel tomorrow was going to be far less than what he wouldn’t feel tonight.
He’d started drinking at 3pm sharp; he’d set an alarm. Since then, he’d been getting around: drink, shower, drink, dress, drink, etc. He’d timed his preparations to leave at five.
As he staggered the six blocks to his weekly obligation, he wondered if he’d drunk enough. Probably not.
He entered his parents’ crowded apartment; people upon people; fire code be damned. One of his aunts cried out, “Oh look! The drunk!”
He groaned. “I aim to please.”
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