8
Five hours later Mike started actually hoping someone would come through the door and shoot him—sooner rather than later. He really didn’t want to have to go into his apartment to use the bathroom. The first hints of daylight would reveal the caked blood on his bedsheets.
Maybe he’d just pee in the corner.
Or piss himself.
Not like it mattered anymore.
When his phone rang, he almost wet himself then and there. He dropped the unopened bottle of Jack Daniels, which bounced on the carpet without breaking. Good. He didn’t need his pit of despair to smell like Kentucky Bourbon.
“Advanc— This is Mike Munroe.” There was no more Advanced Ads. Just Mike.
“I’m so glad I caught you, son. Hope I didn’t wake you.” The voice was deep and cheery.
“Um, no. I’ve been awake a while.”
“Good. Good.
