Broken Highway: A Thomas Highway Story - Plot & Excerpts
“I think you’ve had enough, buddy,” the bartender said in a voice that utterly lacked conviction. He was a wrinkled old geezer with gray hair and bloodshot eyes. Undoubtedly took the job for the fringe benefits, which almost certainly consisted of slipping himself a taste once every hour. Or every ten minutes more like it. I just stared at him with dead eyes and motioned again. I knew he didn’t have the balls to cut me off. “All right,” he said after a moment of hesitation to save face. “But no more after this one.” “That’s what you told me last time,” I said. “Yeah, well this time I mean it,” he said as he filled my shot glass for what had to be the tenth time that night. “Sure you do,” I said dismissively before shooting the Jack. I paid for the latest round, finished off the rest of the Killians and turned to survey the room. The place was an out-and-out shithole; dark and old and reeking of mildew and spilled beer. A ratty old pool table with only 13 balls sat in the far corner, unused.
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