Night fell over the town, wrapping around Santana Alekson like a blanket as she locked up her bookstore. The delicate wind embraced the nape of her neck as she zipped up her jacket and fixing her collar with a little cough, beginning her walk home.
"Hello, Ted," Santana whispered softly, inclining her head curtly as she passed by the bar, an old friend leaning against the window and a lit cigar between his lips.
"Shanchana!" Theodore Holmes bellowed with a loud booming laugh. An empty bottle of vodka crashed to the ground after having fallen out of his hand, which he then outstretched to grip her forearm and pull her back over to him, accidentally slamming her into the window. A little dazed, Santana shook her head to chase away the stars circling her skull and tugged on her wrist in attempt to break the grasp. "How've you been handling yerself?" he demanded with a cheeky yellow grin.
"Well," Santana replied, wriggling away and wrinkling her nose; she never liked vodka, the taste nor the smell, but least of all its effects. Ted was a rowdy drunk and was well-known for it. He knew how to pack a punch when sober, but when drunk his force doubled, and he could take a hit once he'd had a few to drink. Every living thing knew not to cross old Theodore (Teddy or Ted to friends) Holmes, drunk or sober, and if anyone did, they said their prayers, tried to escape, and if the escape fails, well, all they could do was just hope for the best.