The best of intentions always had a strong method for derailing. While Lukas had started on his walk home from the diner, the soles of his boots -- demented bad influences that they were -- had other things in mind.
You know the story; you're minding your own business, walking through the night, admiring the streetlights that flicker and fizzle like cheap firecrackers in the distance, thinking about how you will need to get up early in the morning for work, and how you're never going to get to any of the places that you would like to. When, the next thing you know, you've wandered into a nearby cantina and fate says that it's dollar beer night.
Lukas lingered for less than an hour, damaging himself and his liver appropriately in those fourty-five minutes before he took to the night air again. This time, waltzing down the gutter with a leisurely box step, hands wedged into denim valleys. He ultimately arrived and caught the front door of Pax with the toe of his boot, then the curl of his fingers and the wedge of an elbow that preceded the way he slinked through the most narrow opening he could manage. A mountain peak of ironic circumstance made it's way into the lobby just then, as his bluegrass eyes lifted to notice, not even ten feet away stood