The Bottom
The alley reeked of dumpsters and the piss of the homeless and drunk. Rhiannon wasn't homeless. She lifted her second bottle of Grey Goose and stared up through the bottom.
You're gonna regret it if you drink any more.
"Cheers."
Shrugging off her inner voice of wisdom wasn't as hard as it should be. She twisted off the cap and took a hit, which would've been easily done, if she hadn't been flat on her back. It spilled down her neck, soaked through her shirt, and tracked through the dust on the car hood.
Party foul.
Alcohol seemed as good a solution to her troubles as any. This morning the papers had come. The ink pen had seemed to weigh 100 pounds while she signed her life away. Now she wanted to find out how much alcohol it took to reach a stupor of epic proportions.
A street light flickered on overhead. She squinted and let her arm flop over her face, hoping it would act as a shield. The time for sweat lamps and interrogation was still to come, she figured. The worst of it wouldn't even come from the government. It would come from her friends.
"Whistler... If you can hear me," she said, raising her bottle, "Here's to disappointment. Take a look at me now."