When I came to, the hangover was hitting harder than the headwound. I could feel that I was cuffed to a chair – we stared out into the gaping maw of open quarry.
Digits? I’d waste that fucker for playing this game. Though this was a little brutish…
Pebbles dropped like my chances of a good morning’s sleep, clanging off the quarry wall with an echo weaker than a hooker’s waistband.
“Long time, Kurt.”
“Don’t sound like a dead man, Al. Last I heard your throat was cut this morning.”
“You ought to watch your news outlets. We need to talk.”