FOUR WORDS

"It began when they come took me from my home, And put me in Dead Row, 
Of which I am nearly wholly innocent, you know."

-Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

"Give me the key to the Chevy, Ant, you aren't driving that thing anywhere. You're toasted."

Anthony looked at his old buddy Pete with quiet indignation and relinquished the keys to his truck. Partially because Pete was a straight shooter--always had been, and partially because there were currently two of him.

"Sure, you got it. . .Petes." Anthony said with a laugh. The twin Petes did not laugh.

"Get to steppin' buddy. I'll call Suzy and tell her you're on your way."

"That's a terrible idea," Anthony said, throwing his hands up with exaggerated alarm, "I'll catch hell--just give me my house key off that ring and I'll get out of your hair."

"I lost my hair because of friends like you years ago, Ant." Pete said, finally relinquishing a smile. Pete had a nasty habit of scaring off potential new customers with his trademark resting-bitch-face or "RBF" as the regulars called it. He was a prematurely bald fellow, but it didn't look wrong on him--6ft and 250lbs of bearded Americana. With his white apron on, he was your stereotypical small-town, working class, bartender. A stereotype he did not mind perpetuating. "Here ya' go anyhow, chief." Pete said, with a sniff, sliding the key across the bar to Anthony.

As he scooped his key off the polished oak he looked up and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar.

"Jesus, I sure do look the part." He said, scratching at his chin. Anthony's neat hair had fallen out of it's normal combed back style, and was a bird's nest atop his head. His cheeks were flushed, and his ears were red. A 5 o'clock shadow had developed on his previously clean shaven face. Anthony was handsome enough, dimpled chin and a strong jawline. His college baseball days were behind him, but he was still in shape. His eyes were a unique hazel, more green than brown. But now, his unique eyes were blood shot, and if you put enough booze in Tom Cruise, he'll still look like shit. The thought of explaining his current condition to his wife weighed heavily on his mind. Luckily, the Pair-o-Petes saved the day with sober reason.

"Shit yeah you look the part," Pete said, "wash up and get the hell home, Ant."

On his way to the men's room, Anthony heard what sounded like someone getting sick. The person inside the john was moaning, it sounded to Anthony like a ghost from a bad campfire story.

"Did you eat some of Petes cooking? You gotta be new here." Anthony called out, stifling a laugh.

No answer, and the moaning continued. Anthony tried the doorknob, finding it locked he realized he had to take a leak. He began to knock.

"Hey fella! I'm not shy and I need to make water . . . light a match if you have to, I just want to use the pisser!" Anthony knocked harder still, causing the thin plywood door to shake in its frame. "Honestly pal, I'm gonna piss my pants if this door doesn't get unlocked, I need to go!" The moaning continued, unchanged.

"Fucking hell! PETE!" Anthony cried.

"What do you need, Ant? Too drunk to work the toilet?" Pete answered with a laugh.

"Har-de-fuckin-har! You got a stew bum passed out in the commode with the god damn door locked!" Pete didn't respond. "Peter," Anthony called out, "I'm going to take a whiz on your floor if you don't get back here and open this thing!"