three beers before ficlet

He walked over to the mini-fridge, grabbed the church key, and pulled open his third beer for the evening. This Pilsner Urquell was left over from a party at his house a few weeks earlier. A party for which he was the featured guest, but didn’t throw, and so this mediocre beer had been chosen.

He rarely had alcohol in his house. He was more of a social drinker, frequently hitting the karaoke clubs nearby to at least pretend he had a social life. His singing got him attention and applause—the things that he craved when he wasn’t otherwise in the limelight of his day job. Of course, “singing” is used loosely here: what he lacked in singing skill, he made up for in stage presence.

But tonight, with the car in the shop, he was stuck at home, slowly whittling down the remainders from that party that now seemed a distant memory. He wondered if after this third beer, he could write a bad fiction story. Remembering that he had a account, he pulled up the bookmark, and began to type.

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