“Dave! Over here!”
He slowly turned around to face whoever it was calling him. As his body gradually turned around, the musky fog enveloped his body as it rotated, crawling over his shoulders and eventually slithering downward into the clutches of gravity.
He exhibited a sneer as his first impulsive reaction towards the camera pointing at him. Whoever it was in the distance, camouflaged by the fog, just took his picture.
This was going to be a long night.
The cheap three dollar beer tasted good. Not because it was good, but because of how he applied the carbonated water (which is basically what it was) generously to his throat. It felt good to feel the immediate pseudo-blissful drunken rush of alcohol in his system after a big gulp.
“Thanks for the picture,” yelled the mystery person from across the room.
“No problem,” replied Dave, his voice conveniently drowned out by the incessant drone of the overused low rumbling frequencies frequented by many oblivious musicians. Powered by Sidelines