If Adventure Calls, Let it Go to Voicemail

Amber liquor over cold stones chipped away from a distant planet. Brought from earth back into space.
He sipped impatiently, determined to enjoy it but uncomfortable with the slow onset of inebriation. There was nothing else left to enjoy, nothing but stars reaching out for ages and ages. All the “mysteries of space” as everyone on earth said. Mouths moving by puppet strings, held by cleverer people who painted the ads and filmed the commercials that promised such a beautiful life. So he and his wife had set out, drunk on adventure and optimism.
Their ship was boarded on the second day. Strange folk cut his wife to ribbons. Left him to die in the captain’s chair. Marooned with no food, no gasoline, and a gun with 1 bullet. Old fashion pirate traditions, they’d said.
He drank the liquor slower than he’d expected but faster than he’d hoped. No where to go, no where to be, no place in the universe save right where he sat.
Cold steel touched the inside of his cheek and then nothing but the cold void.

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