One more round

You wave down the bar at Tommy, who steps away from a conversation he's having with another customer and comes down to see you.

"One more, Tommy."

"Okay, but think about making it the last one, Sammy. You should get home and get some rest. I don't want to cut you off, but I don't want you puking in my bar either."

"Don't worry Tommy, I'm all over it. One more for the road, my friend."

He nods and puts another drink in front of you, drifting back down the bar. You pick it up and sip it, savoring the sweet burn of the bourbon. You can't think why Tommy's so worried about a mess in the bar, the place is a dump. Probably best not to say that though, you think and drain your glass, sliding off the stool and digging bills out of your pocket, leaving enough to cover your afternoon's boozing and a small tip. You wave at Tommy who nods in response, and go out into the street.

The sunlight seems painfully bright to you after spending several hours in the semi-dark of the bar. You think about the advice Tommy gave you about going home, and decide that you could use another drink. You know of a few taverns on the way home to your apartment which are less scrupulous than Tommy about serving drunks. One of the advantages of living in the Tenderloin district of the city, you chuckle as you wander up the street.

You roll into the first tavern up the block and sit at the bar. The bartender is an old man who barely takes his eyes off the baseball game on television as he serves you. This place is much seedier than Tommy's joint, grimy and dark, with customers to match. Just the place to match your mood, you think as you bury your nose in your glass and feel sorry for yourself.

When you stagger out of the place several drinks later, it's after dark. You lean against the building for a moment to get your bearings then start to weave your way up the street towards home.

You've gone no more than a couple of blocks when you hear the sound of a struggle ahead. You see two figures wrestling over some object both seem trying to claim, there are the sound of blows and grunts of pain. Getting closer you see that one of the combatants is a woman, the other a slightly built man.

"Hey, what's going on?" You yell just as the woman gains control of the disputed object and strikes the man with it, knocking him to the ground, but losing her grip on it in the process. The object, some kind of package wrapped in brown paper, hit the ground and rolls to your feet, where you instinctively pick it up. You're about to hold it out to the woman when she looks at you, apparently noticing you for the first time. She gives a little cry of alarm, putting her hand to her mouth and backing away, then turning and running.

"Hey come back," you call after her. "You forgot something." She looks back once, but continues to flee. Puzzled, you kneel by the prostrate man, drunkenly trying to see if he's hurt. He sits up, holding his head, then looks at you and jumps to his feet, knocking you over in the process. You fall back and bang your head on sidewalk. Dazed, you see him fleeing in the opposite direction from the woman.

You watch him run, drunkenly puzzled by the events, but shaking your head at any attempt to understand what happened. You realize you're still holding the parcel and decide to take it home with you. It's only a few more blocks and you can turn it over to the cops the next day. You're far too drunk to be chasing crazy people.

You stagger up the street to your building at the corner of Post and Hyde streets and stumble up the three flights of stairs to your apartment. Unlocking the door you reel into the place, able to kick your shoes off before you fall onto the bed and into drunken oblivion.