It was a dull Monday sunrise, the dread of being at work by eight o’clock wasn’t nearly as daunting as I thought it should be.

I shifted uncomfortably in my stool, and I tossed back another shot. The bar was oddly quiet, the noise from all the other early birds not quite filtering through the air that was thick of cigar smoke and excessive cursing.

The droning music from the old fashioned jukebox seemed to fit the mood as my vision started to blur.

Tenth one does the trick I thought to myself.

For the first time in months, I pulled a cigarette out of my pocket and lit up, not caring what my co-workers would say to me in the next three hours.

The bartender came around and asked if I wanted another shot. I declined, but struck up a conversation. She was a pretty girl and I knew she had something I wanted. She had every pill you could imagine, and I bought some.

After I thanked her, I popped an oxycodin, and I walked out of the bar, donning my uniform, holstering my gun, and pocketing my badge.