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You know how in movies, when someone wakes up from a bad dream they shoot up from their bed and pant? Not my experience.

Perhaps, this was due to the fact that my face was stuck to the bar. Not in any weird Harry Potter way. Never in my life (so far? I feel the need to say so far after being here a day or so) have I come into contact with magic stickyness. The closest would probably be those hands from when we were kids.

If Satan hisself didn’t make this, who did?

Instead of referring to that Satanic mess pictured above, I’d like to redirect your attention to my face stuck to the bar. I’m talking about a few pounds of resistance, cheek was stretched, plus that little tearing sounds sort of stuck. Like a tongue on an icy pole. What? No one here was born in the 1940s and has experience with this? Well..alright then. MOVING ON!

I looked around, realized that I was still in Maine and had a minor inkling to just say “Fuck” and then go back to bed for a bit, cause at least then when I woke up the second time and Rich is all “Why did you go back to sleep?!” I could be like “I wasn’t happy about it…”

Instead, I arose from the booth I fell asleep in, took the longest piss in recorded Mainish history and looked around for other survivors from the previous night.

The bar was empty. Granted, who was I expecting? Wait, I know. My brother and his girlfriend. Well, she’s my friend too but it’s like, which identifier do I go by at this point? I was friends with her first, but I think if you marked down the man hours they’ve spent more time together. I’ve probably got Rich cornered on waking man hours but they have sleepovers A LOT. On that note, let me map this out real quick. I’ll be back in a second.

Wait, no. Dumb! (I’m totally gonna do that later. Remind me to do that and then come back to this post to link it. It’ll be so foreshadowy/tres cool). The bar was empty, but also lacked blood so at that moment, I would have taken a bet that Justine and Rich were still alive. Granted, it would depend who was betting me, but as long as it wasn’t a clown or someone who had oversized teeth, I’d take it. Even if one of them turned out to be dead, I’d probably go double or nothing.

Dodging a few knocked over barstools and the judgemental glances of more than a few of those waving cat statues (everybody needs a hobby, I guess, right, Lills?), I went to the front door.

With a little resistance and creaking, it gave way to the brutal pounding of rain outside. The orchestra of it all hit my hangover with the malice of Damien from The Omen, parts one through three. The Omen, Part Four is pretty shit, anyways.

The whole town was wet, but worse. Damp. Like the rain and sea had soaked through any protection it might have once had and settled into the bones of the buildings. I imagined the sewers full of bright, fresh and freezing rain water and even more fell from the sky. Everything was stark, harsh, like the intensity of the blacks and greys had been turned up but cooled. The streets were empty…except for him.



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