Michael Lou sat on the rock-iron bunk in the town's jail cell and cried like a wounded cur. The aspirin he'd downed for his hangover was yet to take effect, and his head along with his pride was on fire. He took the head out of his palms long enough to slurp down more of the coffee detective Fowler had left him, then gripped it tight again, worried it would fall off.
He despised himself. He always did after waking from a drinking binge that left him in terrible conditions. Once he'd woken in a pig farm, covered head to toe in mud. Other times, the drink turned him nasty, he picked a fight and always ended up trashed badly. What scared him most was those times when he couldn't quite remember if he'd turned violent or just passed out quietly. Whenever that happened, he was more than likely going to wake up in the cell with a monstrous hangover. In the morning he would be made to pay for damages if he'd damaged anything, and if not, he'll be allowed to go freely.
