Port of Call

Another port call, another dockside dive.

Judson sat at the bar, slightly hunched, lost in the thin stream of smoke that rose from his cigarette. “Gimme another of whatever that was”, he grunted as he pushed his shot glass towards the old man behind the vomit and booze stained bar.

“Sure Sure. That’ll be another four-fifty”. The old man didn’t go on. This wasn’t the kind of place where the customers liked to talk.

Judson couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had started the lonely existence of a freighter-man. He didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to remember the good life he’d had, didn’t want to remember his old job, didn’t want to remember her.

No, it was better during the blank times, when he was frozen during the centuries long passages between galaxies. During those times, he did not – could not – remember. And for the other times, when he had to be awake … well, there was a dive in every port.

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