A brown bottle rolled to my feet like life rolling me student loan notifications and urges to fap.
The bottle came from the guards.
Obviously empty—just like my future and my testicles after hitting six times a day—and the guard must've passed out mid-chug, because the drunk opera they were performing in their sleep suddenly went silent.
I peeked my head out like toes from a ripped sock.
As expected—three guards, snoring like buffaloes with sleep apnea and anal beads.
I picked up the bottle, snapped it in half as silently as a disappointment in an Indian family, and made myself a DIY murder utensil. Martha Stewart but for homicide.
Even if I made noise, they wouldn't hear it—they were spiritually vacationing on Saturn. I can rail their wives beside them and they wouldn't know it.
Weapon ready, I tiptoed towards them like a cat on a fashion runway—elegant, deadly, and probably hungry.
