Tom awoke after a long night of drinking to a pounding headache and an abandoned city.
This had been going on for months now. Tom had been a bit of a ne'er-do-well before, but after everyone else left (or died? Maybe Tom just missed the Rapture. He was still
(more) a little unclear about that.) Tom had been living the good life. He moved with heroic unconcern through the streets, breaking the windows and locked doors of liquor stores and bars, drinking himself into comas, and then waking up the next morning and doing it again.
He knew this lifestyle was at least vaguely unhealthy, but Tom didn't really care. He felt alive.
And pain. So much pain. He didn't know his head could hurt like that. The car honking outside didn't help much.
'Wait,' Tom thought blearily through a haze of headache and booze, 'who's in that car?'
After another five minutes of trying to fitfully sleep through the pain, Tom gave up and pushed open the door to BORDER LIQUORS and poked his head out.
And stared at the tiny yellow Winnebago that was the cause of all the ruckus outside.
It was quite bright (too bright, maybe), so Tom couldn't make out who was in the car, but he could certainly hear the voice.
'Hey, mister!'
It was a high-pitched, feminine voice, the kind that drips voluptuousness and conjures up images of a petite, angelic specimen of the fairer sex, and Tom was certainly affected by these images at the moment. He sucked in his gut and stepped up to the car, getting a clear view at the figure inside.
He then ran shuddering back inside BORDER LIQUORS.
Inside the Winnebago, 300-pound Hester Williams watched him go, feeling vaguely hurt, while Tom shuddered and drank himself to oblivion.(less)
