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Guys Being Dudes: PI

Guys Being Dudes: PI

It’s like he didn’t even know what fun was anymore. This bullshit job was sucking the life out of him. Conference call after conference call. Spreadsheet after spreadsheet. Meeting after meeting that 10000% should have just been an email. He had never known such pain in his life.

Two years ago, you couldn’t have convinced him that this would be where he was now. Buttoned-up in an overpriced suit, Tod’s drivers rubbing blisters on his feet under his nearly-empty desk. Was this life? Was this what being an adult was like? If it was…he was ready to break the fuck out.

Friday rolled around…slowly as it ever did. Each day took a little more out of him. Every morning he woke up angrier than the day before. Friday was the only positive day of the week, because it promised two days of freedom. Two days outside of his cubicle of an office. His cage, his handcuffs. Fridays were his emancipation.

He’d been thinking about it all week. Friday night, he and all of his pals were going to paint the town fucking red. He wanted to black out so hard he didn’t remember his real name. He wanted to dance and drink and make an ass of himself…without the pain of memories.

At 4:56 p.m. on Friday afternoon, he threw his work-related papers into a bag and stomped down the hallway toward the elevator. His brain was working about 6 hours ahead, already imagining himself hammered-drunk on a back patio of a bar, smoking a cig through each nostril and at least two more between his lips.

No sooner had he slapped the “close” button on the elevator than his group message started lighting up. Forrest, Kyle, and Logan were all in town. His new pals were ‘down to clown’ tonight, as well. Considering the last time they hung out together, he knew it could only be a rowdy night.

He went home and showered, listening to Bieber’s “Despacito” on repeat while he rinsed his hair. Three shower beers, and a tiny, very casual line later, and his squad rolled up to the apartment, raring to go.

Two bars later, he was bellied up to the bar at Ringo’s with Forrest, ordering two shots of Patron for himself. There was no reason for this, just his stupid drunk brain requesting poison. Upon taking his two shots back to back, he realized he needed to puke. Immediately.

His mouth was watering. Not just a regular kind of watering, but the watering that tasted like salt-water rising under his tongue. The type that put cold sweat on his lower back and blurred his eyes while he tried to swallow intently. He knew he couldn’t fight it after his night of Vegas Bombs and Fireball. He pushed his way out the bar and into the street, throwing elbows to get out into the clear.

He felt a hand on his back, pulling his shirt, as he emptied the contents of his stomach against the brick wall in the alleyway attached to the bar. What fucking bar was it, anyway? He laid his cold and sweaty forehead against his forearm propped up on the bricks.

“Excuse me, sir. Can you step away the wall for me?”

He shifted his glazed-over eyes into the alleyway and was immediately blinded by a flashlight. The reflection of two police badges (or was it four?) threw him off.

He heard words being spoken in his direction, but only noticed the blurriness of the stars in the sky above the streetlight, and the fact that he very badly wanted a cigarette. He squinted his eyes as he was thrown against the wall. As the handcuffs tightened around his wrists, he wondered to himself where exactly the fuck Forrest went with his lighter.

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Taylor

Texas native and Alabama grad with a Drake problem.

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