"Another round of tequila shots," was the

"Another round of tequila shots," was the last thing I remembered. I tried to stitch the night together based on
the number of bottle caps in the pockets of my jeans. After I hit a dozen I realized there was no way I could explain
why I was wearing skinny jeans in the first place, except that it's the hipster thing to do and I want to be like
Sam Delroe. Hes so hipster that if he ever sees this hell slap me.
Slap me hard. Sam wasn't the type to try this. He was more into line dancing and polka. Actually, he reminded me of that time when Al Sharpton and Chris Reeves went down to the
local comic book store and pointed at posters of Superman, giggling like schoolgirls, the two of them holding hands. From where I stood, I could see
them basking in their newfound love, but in the reflection of the Newbury Comics window I could also see the cold glint of the barrel of the .357 their pusuer was raising to take
away the very first Razor Comic signed by Everette Hartsoe that he had just bought. To bad
it was water stained and dog-eared from mishandling over the years. That killed the resale value - it was barely a reader's copy. But I still wanted it; no, I needed it.
Spilling bodily fluids on it almost always caused the store keeper to invoke "you break it, you bought it" but I couldn't bear ruining the pages. I hid it in the end, Walken style.

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