Crapulous

Jordan staggered away from the concert with the group, ears ringing, thirsty, and concentrating. Left foot forward. Right foot forward. Don’t ralph again.

Follow the dude in the yellow shirt, he told himself. Who was he? Jordan gave a lopsided smile at a shrub. He was too drunk to remember much. Too drunk to care.

Jordan stumbled, fell into someone. They propped him back on his feet. “Damn, Jordan! You’re totally fucked up, man.”

The voice seemed familiar somehow, but Jordan blanked.

“Lollapalooza! Great fucking music today, eh? Here’s our crap motel, man. Say where’s your girlfriend? She ain’t here.”


Picture is by EMR. (100 words)

 

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