The apartment was empty. He threw his keys on the counter, right next to the book and staggered into the living room. It was time to go to bed, all the good boys were asleep. It was work tomorrow, if he could get himself into the uniform ever again, in the back of that fast food joint, blowing life away for disposable income. He was drunk as a Turkish saint but he was not happy, hence the sense of inevitable doom.

He fell down on the couch and passed out. When he woke up, it was still night. The lights were on in the kitchen. He forced himself to get up and scrambled back to the counter. The book was there. The autobiography of Dave Mustaine. She had left it.

Before she left? Or before she was blown to pieces by aliens? Which would be better? He wept.

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