What It Could Be
Half-drunk and wholely-stoned Darren fumbled with the lock. He paused to scratch indecently, not that any of the neighbors gave a crap at 2 AM. Who gave a crap about anything at this hour, he thought to himself. Shrugging off the suspicion that the itch might be crabs again, he shouldered the door as the lock finally turned.
His eyes retreated from the glaring hall light. The semi-sober half of his mind muttered something about a bad sign. The drunk half raised the unfinished liter of Jager to toast his young bride waiting at the far end of the hall, though she didn’t seem in a toasting sort of mood. Like Scrabble tiles magically falling out to form a word, details came together in his addled brain.
That look on her face was bad, really bad. The papers clutched in one hand seemed important, official, medical even. Since when did she own a gun? Or was it his? Had he bought a gun? The thought process derailed as he scratched his crotch again, but it picked up again at full speed.