He stops playing the sax and removes a half empty pint of Jim Beam from his jacket
pocket. "Here you go son, a sip of this'll cheer you up." he says, holding it out.
Although you know you shouldn't, you grab the bottle from him and greedily drink it all
down. The harshness of the whiskey makes you start to cough, but you stifle it and wipe
your mouth with the back of your sleeve, then unthinkingly hand the empty bottle back to
him.
"Heh-heh, didn't leave any for me? Guess I was right in figuring you'd have a taste for the
stuff too by now. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it son."
You don't know what to say to him so you remain silent. You are content just to feel the
warmth of the alcohol flowing from your gut into your bloodstream. It's been such a long
time since you'd fallen off the wagon, you'd almost forgotten how good that buzz could
feel.
Suddenly a loud rumbling sound begins to build behind you and the ground starts to shake
violently. Pieces of the ceiling begin falling , you run down the platform trying to escape
the falling brickwork and concrete.
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