beaten at my own game

they all knew it. those bastards behing the non-working bar knew that I wouldn’t last without service. severe thirst and the threat of sobriety have forced me from my high perch to decend down the rocky steps to the pool bar to get another drink. I have to hade through the mass of human flesh and poorly done boob jobs tha call hemselves residents of the god forsake hyatt regency. their stench clings to me as I quickly run to the bar to refuel. I quickly escape and resume my perch. But I swear that I hear laughter for the bastards behind me now, but when I look they appear to just be cleaning tables. they should watch it, i’m on to them now, their days are numbered. it’s their type that get their backs to the wall first when the revolution comes…