A KILLER HANGOVER was out there, lurking like a villain in the impenetrable darkness,
the shadows of night. Waiting to jump out and clobber. And he, the prey, was okay with
that.

He’d been pounding down doubles since mid-afternoon, and it was now nearing closing
time at a slimehole of a saloon.

He didn’t know the name of the joint. Didn’t care. Hours earlier, he’d stumbled out of
another nameless bar and ended up at this dump. Wherever the hell it was.

When the bartender approached warily, Jeremy Devon Stone was well on his way to
passing out or puking. Quite possibly both.

The stooped man on the stool resembled just another sloppy drunk. Stone, however, had a
plan and was executing it masterfully. With every shot of bottom shelf whiskey, he was that
much closer to forgetting The Call. With every drink, remembering what was said seemed
less likely, and that was a good thing. A very good thing.

The ponytailed barkeep at MacDougal’s, a south side watering hole popular with
construction workers and hockey fans, didn’t know Stone. He was too dressed up to be a
regular, with his gray wool sport coat, collared white shirt and black denim jeans. The man
with the towel saw the notebook on the scratched mahogany bar and figured the visitor was
a journalist, probably just passing through.

Stone’s eyes were shut, and the bartender paused to look him up and down. Late 20s. No
wedding ring. Expensive haircut. Day’s worth of stubble on his chin. Not the usual clientele
in their unwashed flannel and frayed ballcaps, shouting over their beer.

He reached across and tapped the stranger’s arm, bent around an empty rocks glass.

“Hey, man.”

Stone’s eyes fluttered open, blue and red creating a new disturbing color. He straightened
and immediately belched. His breath was foul.

Catching a whiff, the bartender winced.

“Rough day?”

“You could say that.”

“How many drinks you had?”

“Not enough.”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“How many drinks. You’ve been here all night.”

“Fuck’s sake. Didn’t know I was s’posed to count.”

The bartender stood silently for a moment, wondering if he should give this dude the boot.
Or show a little kindness and call a cab.

“Since you’re jus’ standing there, how ‘bout another whiskey?” Stone said, pushing his luck
– if he had any left to push. The words came out slurred and drenched in spittle.

The toweled man scowled, but moments later turned on his heels and grabbed the bottle.
He poured another gut-grinding double but didn’t release the glass until he made firm eye
contact with Stone.

“Last call,” the bartender growled. “You’re done.”

Stone grunted and gulped the drink down, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. He
tossed two crisp fifties on the bar and stumbled out into the rain.

Cursing and mumbling like a crazy person, he managed to order an Uber after several
clumsy fails. Despite his obvious impairment, he’d have tried to drive home – if he could
remember where he parked. He thought he’d walked up a hill to reach the bar with no name,
but that part was pretty hazy.

Key chunks of memory were already failing, like a building shivering before its collapse. It
would only get worse, he knew. His plan was working brilliantly.

He looked up at the ceiling of clouds, stuck out his tongue and felt the tickle of raindrops.
He smiled in a lopsided way. A deliriously defiant way.

It was the worst day of his life. Check that: One of the worst days. But with any luck, he
wouldn’t remember a thing tomorrow.

Not a goddamn thing.