MZS: Boston: A Metropolitan Zombie Survivors Novella by K. D. McAdams

Chapter 1
     
     
    Someone put a bullet in my head. I’ve had the “I’m never drinking again” hangovers before. This is more of a fucking “I may never move again” kind of hangover.
    Why do I do this? I came back from Telluride so I could grow up and stop this shit. My Boston friends welcomed me home in style ; it’s lasted the better part of a month. I suppose my Boston friends are the same as my Telluride friends—they just gave up on the resort lifestyle sooner.
    It seems like every time I do what you’re supposed to do things suck. I was supposed to go to college. I did and that was terrible. My parents say I failed out after the first semester. In reality I bored out. Part-time online college was a far better choice for me.
    Now that I have a degree and some experience running a business , I was supposed to come home, get a real job, buy a house, get married, and have kids. Apparently running a liquor store isn’t a “real job.”
    Managing five employees —all flakes, by the way—tracking inventory, working with suppliers, doing marketing and sales promotions, tracking cash flow and profit margins apparently aren’t “real” skills if they are learned at a liquor store. Every interview I’ve been on wants me to sit in some shitty cube farm cold-calling morons all day. These companies aren’t sure they can trust me with setting appointments, and I could probably run their business better than they are.
    It’s all enough to drive a guy to drink.
    On top of all that, living poor in Boston is a lot harder than living poor in Telluride. Waking up in the Colorado Mountains was like its own medicine. At times I would luck into a short-term luxury sublet for next to nothing. It was amazing what a carefully gifted bottle of scotch could get you if you knew when to do it.
    Here , I pay twice as much for a quarter of the space. My two-hundred-and-eleven square foot studio feels big because of the high ceilings. Plus my bed is lofted, so it’s like I have a separate bedroom. It just has a four-foot ceiling and I can’t really sit up in bed.
    I also have a rat that visits regularly. Today it’s being a total ass and banging on every single surface in the kitchenette. Maybe it’ll cook breakfast for me and I can hate it a little less.
    Crawling to the edge of the bed takes herculean effort. My head is pounding and my mouth is so dry I’m exhaling dust. That thing better not be messing with my box of wine or I’ll have to actually do something today.
    Boxed wine is my secret hangover helper. It doesn’t have the carbonation and bloating effect of beer and it tastes better than a shot of vodka. The hair of the dog that bit you is a vicious cycle, but when you feel like this you can’t criticize what works.
    Expending far too much energy , I am able to pry my eye open. I can’t tell if the need to barf is from shock or from the hangover.
    My favorite Ray Borque t-shirt is standing in the kitchen. It’s just starting to ride up on a perfect bare ass while whoever is wearing it reaches for the top shelf. I know what my shirt looks like so I let my eyes trail down the tanned and toned legs. They meet the floor on tiptoes and while I haven’t seen her face yet… yeah me!
    Who did we meet out last night?
    I did a little pregaming at Cheers, and then Wes came in and we went to Daisy Buchanan’s. Somebody texted that girl we met on Tuesday, but I thought she said no. Do I know this chick or is it someone we just bumped into?
    The hook up itself isn’t surprising. If I’m honest, though, most of the time they don’t have rockin bodies like this one. Not remembering the hook up is what gets to me, I usually remember who I bring home. What if she’s wicked cool and we had a great time? Being blackout drunk the first time we fucked doesn’t seem like a strong foundation for a relationship.
    Jess! Wes ’s college friends’ friend from home.
    She was cute. I thought she was a little wider in the hips? She did