Chapter 8

As if I’m being controlled remotely, I step out of the bar and into the street. Cool wind blows in my ear. Its frigid bite resets me, slightly.

I’m going to assume the worst is over and that whatever malfunction my intestinal tract was experiencing was due to ingesting whatever it was in that cocktail. But it seems to have passed now, and I feel good-n-pissed. Downfall is, my whiskyed dick don’t work but I still got energy.

Chapter 7

It wasn’t that weird that this Morgen A. needed a ride. 

Although, our interactions in private messages did make me wonder if I was talking to a computer programmed with auto responses. A bot. 

The driver double-checked to make sure the address I put in was really where I wanted to go.

Why does it always feel set-up whenever someone agrees to hang out with me?