Drunk and Disorderly

The hooker looked familiar. McIvor’s Bar was no different from any other backwater bar on every other shit-hole mining rock. Dusty, noisy, full of smoke, and smelling of booze and the piss, sweat and puke of the assorted life-forms evolution had cursed with sentience. But to Joe Smith, McIvor’s was home. His daily escape from…

A sharp pain awoke Joe. He sat up and rubbed his neck, the cool touch of the raw stone wall lingering on his forehead. Blinking his eyes clear, he checked the wall clock. Two hours before the start of shift. He was still sitting at his table, an empty whiskey bottle and a half-eaten bowl…