“Fuck.”

That one word aptly sums up last night, the night before that, and probably the entire last 3 years. I drunkenly rolled over in my friend’s spare bed that he graciously allowed me to sleep in til my soon-to-be ex-wife moves out of the house we shared with my only son, her little girl, a cat and a dog.

Shaking off the web of beeriness that enshrouded me and exhaling a plume of ethyl alcohol, I padded into the bathroom and checked myself out. Stubble, check. Facial scars, check. Dark, hooded eyes, double check. I’m ready for work.

I picked out my clothes for the day, put them on, picked up my Glock 19 9 MM in its quick draw case and made my way out the door.