Randy starts to plot revenge against his wife, sister, and Scooter

Randy didn't care, one way or the other.  He lifted his head into the rain and blinked through the cold pour which assaulted his eye lashes and ran down his scalp.  The person to whom the voice belonged was merely a black silhouette under the halo of the street lamp overhead.  He looked tall, possibly dangerous, and certainly someone that Randy would be better off avoiding.

Nonetheless, a painful smile cracked Randy's lips and he nodded in the rain, his wet hair spilling down over his eyebrows, "I guess you could say that!"

The obscured shadow shuffled from one foot to the other as the man searched for an appropriate response, "Yeah, well... you should get out of the rain before you catch a cold."

Randy looked at the sidewalk around him as it quickly absorbed the fat raindrops into its dry surface.  He spread his arms wide and smiled, "But it washes away the piss."

The shadowy man above him sighed audibly and offered this little nugget of advice: "There will always be more piss, my friend.  It never really washes away.  Not for good."

Randy squinted into the streetlight and rain and said, "That's an old wive's tale, by the way.  About the cold?  It's a virus, not the byproduct of cold sogginess."

"Fine.  Are those papers in your hand important?  If they are, you should get them out of the rain before THEY catch a cold."

Randy stared blankly at the papers he clutched.  He'd forgotten about them and he swore as he tucked them into the inner pocket of his jacket, where they would stay reasonably dry.

The stranger with the deep voice sighed, as if already regretting talking to the seated man, then asked in all seriousness, "Have you been drinking, sir?"

Suddenly, Randy was animated.  He sprung to his feet and snapped his fingers, "Now why didn't I think of that?!  I ought to be getting absolutely blitzed right now!  Good call, sir, good call!  You wanna come along?  I could use a good drinking buddy."

The looming figure stood quietly over Randy and appeared to rummage through his pockets briefly, then pulled out a small object, which he then flicked at Randy.  Randy squinted and tried to catch the object, but lost it in the light, and the thing lightly tapped off his forehead and fell into his lap.  He dumbly reached down and pulled up a small yellow disc, plastic, about the size of a coin.  It said, simply, 9 MONTHS on one side; the other was blank.  It took Randy a minute to realize it was an AA sobriety coin, then he flicked it back up to the guy, who responded, "I ain't the one you want to drink with, my friend.  Bad things happen when I drink."

The hatred of his soon-to-be ex-wife bubbled over with the heat and intensity of volcanic lava, and a wicked grin peeled back Randy's lips, "Oh, I think I can guarantee bad things are about to happen."

The End

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