* 𝙹𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙼𝙴𝚁𝙲𝙴𝚁 ...

Restocking at the pharmacy. Five finger discount.

Yeah, yeah.

What the fuck you wastin’ a good sharpie on me for?

Hank picks up his shot with the practiced ease that years of alcoholism brings to anyone, clinking Jack’s glass. “Hank. My mom calls me Henry, though. So…maybe Henry?” A grin, head tipping back as he downs the shot. It burns, the sort of pain that washes away anything else.

“Tequila makes my clothes fall off, and I kinda like having a job.” A grin, quick fingers pulling a bottle of vodka out, laying shot glasses for them. “So, you got a name, rockstar?”

He shouldn’t be drinking — it’s bad for him. Yvonne would be upset. A pause, and then a shrug. “Sure, man. How about shots? You want…uh. Tequila or vodka?”

You got it, man. ( shuffling off, sliding a beer back over the counter moments later. )

How about just a beer then?

... right. sorry. heard chevy impala and assumed, i guess. detroit. fun. was a... long job then. i was half expecting band stuff.

Tell me about it. Man.

is that you trying to impress me? ( ... ) where've you been?

well. lookit what th'rain brought in.

You’re gonna be just fine, kid.

Yeah.