Twenty miles away, parked behind a 7-11,Vince Lawry and Chuck Servis finished off the last six pack. They'd been going at it for four straight hours, just a little friendly competition to see who could toss back the most Buds without puking it all up again. Chuck was ahead by one. They'd lost track of the total; they'd have to figure it out in the morning when they tallied up the beer cans mounded in the back seat.

But Chuck was definitely ahead, and he was gloating about it, which pissed Vince off, because Chuck was better at every fucking thing. And this wasn't a fair contest. Vince could've gone another round, but the Bud had run out, and now Chuck was wearing that eat-shit grin of his, even though he knew it wasn't a fair contest.

Vince shoved open the car door and climbed out of the driver's seat.

"Where you going?" asked Chuck.

"T'get some more."

"You can't handle no more."

"Fuck you," said Vince, and stumbled across the parking lot towards the 7-11's front door.

Chuck laughed. "You can't even walk!" he yelled out the window. Asshole, thought Vince. What the fuck, he could walk. See, he was walking fine. He'd just stroll into the 7-11 and pick up two more sixes. Maybe three.Yeah, he could do three, easy. His stomach was iron, and except for having to piss every few minutes, he didn't feel the effects at all.

He tripped going in the door — goddamn high threshold, they could get sued for that — but he picked himself right up. He got three six packs from the cooler and swaggered over to the cash register. He plunked down a twenty-dollar bill.

The clerk looked at the money and shook his head. "Can't take it," he said.

"What do you mean, can't take it?"

"Can't sell beer to an intoxicated customer."