Published by Chas Tuchel at Smashwords
Copyright 2013 Chas Tuchel.
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Rafferty awakes. For the debauched, this is not guaranteed. Ingestions and inhalants of all manners and strength from the prior night need to have been incorporated, combined, or rejected in proper measure. Fights, many that would have been better left unfought, need to have been fought and won. Fights with wronged women, with oncoming traffic, with mouthy pub landlords, with men of differing opinion, with officers of the law. The dice have to roll sweetly if the night patrol of the dissolute is to end with the benison of safe sleep. For this they are not grateful, for they have little of no memory of the journey that has returned them home. The immediate price for the trip is a dulling, dark ache between the temples, a taste in the mouth one prays is no indicator of what has passed that way, a gap in a young life that may, or may not, be filled in later by the words of others, gleefully or dolefully relayed as the next day develops. In the morning the chance of grace more often than not hangs torn and bloody on the shards of hangover.