34.

We conclude our sneaky business and I plunge into my bags and fish out my rarely touched checkbook. I barely know how to even write a check, not a real popular exchange of funds for my generation. "It's only a few days till October so let's just say this is all of October paid up front." I'm almost knocked to my knees by the fact that he's throwing in a week of free rent. I mumble out a "Sounds good to me", that's barely coherent. I can barely fathom the notion of someone cutting me a deal instead of trying to fuck me over. The elderly are a gift, and I feel like crying. This old man has impressed me more than anyone else. He's my new best friend, I should get us matching bracelets. I'm off day dreaming and I know I've got this glassy look washed over my eyes. I'm sure I'm creeping out my new best friend. I really am terrible at first impressions. "Okay, I'll leave you to your settling in. If you go out and get anything and need help carrying it in, just tell me and I'll make the boy help. His name is Thomas by the way. He's a bit of a schmuck, but he's an alright kid, all things considered." I nod and say "thanks", making note to leave out the fact that twenty minutes ago I wanted to shoot his grandson to death with lazers. He trots off upstairs even slower. The basement's fairly large, like one huge open room. It's empty minus this huge furnace mounted in the corner. It's red and brown with rust. It stands defiantly with the words "Hercules-Sears Roebuck" emblazoned upon it. Me and Hercules down in the basement performing all kinds of impressive feats. I find the floor is filthy as I mill about inspecting the place. I'm leaving trails of dusty foot prints all over. The first new steps in ages. Symbolic. I'm living in a prehistoric cave. I need to sweep before I do anything else, and I'm going to need some booze too. I remember the PBR in my back pocket, and quickly chug its ass-warmed contents. Even if it hadn't been warm from the heat of my ass, it'd still taste like shit. Sure it won a blue ribbon, in 18 fucking 93. It's so damn carbonated, it's terrible and foul. My stomach starts to churn. It's like my stomach is a washer, and I just turned it on full blast. Rumble, rumble. I'm set to spin cycle and I feel wretched till I let out a commanding burp. I switch down from spin cycle to cold rinse and feel better. The nasty gin had worn off long before this, so it's like I was back at zero before this beer. My stomach pain has dwindled down and that delicious hint of alcohol is on the rise. We're off to a good start. Definitely need more beer. In the meantime, I dig out my crown royal bag full of "medicine" and take a few. Take two and call me in the morning. Ha. Call me after mourning. Ha, ha.