“Yeah, I want free margaritas!” shouts the pretty young woman in front of you, blissfully unaware of the dark truth about to unfold before her.
“Well,” you say. You pause to take a drag from your unfiltered cigarette and twist the ends of your greasy, pencil-thin moustache. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
The girl’s laugh is a piercing reminder of an innocence you can barely remember possessing. It is a warm, joyous, hammer that slams against the side of your head - first demanding, then pleading, then begging you to let this one go. You know she doesn’t know any better. You know, and you don’t care. The strikes of the hammer ping off the edges of your mind like lead bullets off six-inch steel.
Your teeth peer viciously from behind your thin lips.
There is no such thing as a free margarita.