Luckily the corner store was just down the street. At the counter, the clerk scanned two twenty six ounce bottles of Wild Turkey, a mickey of Captain Morgan dark rum and a forty of Jack Daniels. "I'd like a pack of king size Players and some matches," said Michael as he picked a meat stick from a plastic cabinet at the cash and threw it next to the bottles. "That too."
"You need mix?" the clerk asked. "We've got coke on sale."
Michael looked at him sternly for a moment. "No, I don't need mix," he said, massaging his forehead with a shaky hand.
“That'll be a hundred and forty nine dollars sir.”
Michael pulled some cash from his wallet, roughly counted up to a hundred and fifty and dropped it on the counter. “Thanks,” he said, grabbing the bag and walking off.
He lit the old cigarette, deciding to finish it first before opening the pack of players, and smoked it on the way home. At the door, he fumbled with the keys while balancing the bag of booze on his knee, nearly dropping it as he finally sat the keys in the socket and unlocked the door. He cursed from frustration when the door got stuck on some shoes he'd left in the entrance. First the bourbon came out of the bag and into a glass which he had next to a coffee table resting beside his lay-z-boy recliner. He sat down and turned on the television, mostly for noise as he didn't really watch the screen while shooting back the drink. He poured another glass and lit another cigarette. Soon the glass had become obsolete and he simply drank from the bottle, finishing half of the second bourbon bottle before vomiting in the kitchen sink and stumbling into bed.