Chris, the savior?

“Damnit, Chris, wake up!” said a man towering above him, giving him a light kick in the side. Chris groaned and rolled over, “What time is it…?”
“A little after two.”
Chris hicupped, and suddenly noticed a searing pain in his head. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

“Shit, I… I must’ve crashed…”
“Yea, and when Max gets back to this mess? He’s gonna kick both our asses, so get up and lets start cleaning up this wreck.”

Chris moaned, not able to feel his legs. He sat up, taking in the aftermath of the night before. His eyes widened at the sight of the bar: tables overturned, broken bottles scattering the floor, and even a splotch of blood on one of the tables.

“Oh piss… where were you all night?” Chris slurred.
“I was at home with the misses” he gave a purposeful cough, “while you were supposed to be looking after the bar. And I must say, you’ve done just a splendid job.”
Chris sighed, and felt his headache worsen as he got up.

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