Smoker sat in a small abandoned bar, taking a long draw on a cigarette he looted from a corpse. Rumor had been spreading around that the person he looted was one of four "fabled prophets" that heralded the spread of the Infection, or so Charger and Spitter liked to say, being devoutly religious to whatever they could wrap their feeble minds around. Redneck dumbasses he thought to himself. His train of thought was suddenly shattered by a cracking window. Reflex kicked in and Smoker dove behind the bar. His panic got the reaction of a laugh.
"Smokes, you ain't practicin' your stop drop 'n roll are ya?" a growling voiced chuckled. Smoker sighed and jumped over the bar.
"Screw you," Smoker retorted.
"D'aww… Smokey. That hurt, now I have to go whine to my therapist," Hunter taunted, feigning sadness.
"Not like you'd be able to find your way around a house, let alone a therapist's office you blind jackass," Smoker jabbed, settling back in his chair. Hunter hit the jukebox a couple of times until it played the churchlike chant he was searching for. The eerie chant was quickly replaced by the satisfying guitar riff, and then pulled chair.
"Come on Smokes, sing it," Hunter laughed, as if he was drunk.
"No, I hate this song," Smoker groaned.
"Fine. Bless me with your gift of light. Righteous cause on judgment night. Feel the sorrow the light has swallowed. Feel the freedom like no tomorrooooooooooooooow!" Hunter sang… terribly. Smoker groaned and moved to the jukebox. He flipped through the songs until he found his favorite song. The heavy guitar riff was replaced by a mellow bass line.
"I was gonna' clean my room, until I got high. I was gonna' get up and find the broom, but then I got high. Ooo… Ooo… Ooo… And now my room is still messed up, and I know why. Why, man, why? Because I got high, because I got high, because I got high." Smoker sang along smoothly.
"Man, both yo' songs suck fat dick. Like your mom," a half gurgled voice said, "Here, listen to this shit." Boomer walked in and switched the song over. "They told you never come around here. Don't wanna' see your face, you better disappear. The fire's in their eyes in their eyes, and their words are very clear, so beat it. Just beat it."
"Fat boy, what'd I say about speaking up? You just stand around and make everyone else look better," a woman's voice ordered. Witch strutted in.
"What's going on?" Smoker muttered to Hunter.
"I don't know, but I need a drink," Hunter said, moving to the bar. He returned to the table with four glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Boomer came to the table.
"Set 'em up, only God knows what she's got in store for us," he groaned.
"Mister Crowley, what went down in your head? Oh Mister Crowley, did you talk to the dead? Your lifestyle to me seemed so tragic. With the thrill of it all. You fooled all those people with magic. Yeah you're waiting on Satan's call." Witch's karaoke was interrupted by the grumbling of Tank as he made his way in. He shoved Witch out of the way and switched the song.
"If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man. You win some, you lose some. It's all the same to me. The pleasure is to play, it make no difference what you say." Tank's groaning along to the song stopped when Spitter stepped in.
"Hun, you can't be serious playing that garbage. You have no taste sweetie," she sassed, switching the song, yet again. Hunter, after all he's sat through, had five shots knocked back. Smoker had three, boomer, who was passed out on the floor, one, Witch, who beat Hunter with six.
"I know you like me. I know you do. That's why whenever I come around she's all over you, and I know you want it. It's easy to see, and in the back of your mind I know you should be home with me. Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me? Don't cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?" Everybody booed, but Spitter kept singing until Charger grabbed her by the arm and nudged her aside. He, like everyone before him, changed the song.
"If it hadn't been for Cotton Eyed Joe, I'd've been married a long time ago, where did you come from? Where did you go? Where'd you come from Cotton Eyed Joe? If it hadn't been for Cotton Eyed Joe, I'd've been married a long time ago, where did you come from? Where did you go? Where'd you come from Cotton Eyed Joe?" Charger was, along with singing, doing the dance for the song. Everyone's cheers of laughter were interrupted by a manic laughing. Jockey stumbled in and banged on the radio until the Keyboard Cat song started playing and he started running around randomly. Everybody else put down five shots before Jockey was done. Fully liquored up, the group stumbled out of the bar. Smoker and Hunter leaned on each other, Witch dragged Boomer carefully until Tank offered to carry him. Jockey just ran off. Spitter and Charger kept drunkenly flirting the whole way back to the apartment that they used to hide out from the survivors. When they entered, Tank set Boomer in a puke stained recliner and then went to the roof. Charger and Spitter snuck into one of the back rooms. Everyone else flopped on a couch.
"You know shomethin Schmokes? If I washn't the man I wash today I'd kiss yeh'," Hunter slurred drunkenly. Witch drunkenly stumbled up to Hunter.
"It may… be the drinksh but you're… better looking, come with me. I have a shuprishe for you," she purred. The two stumbled off to another room. Smoker let out a breath, lit a cigarette, and took a long draw. With a puff of smoke coming from his tumor riddled lungs the said drunkenly,
"Times are good, good friendsh, good shongsh, good drinksh. I don't usually drink, but when I do, I drink Dos Equis. Shtay thirsty my friendsh." With that, he passed out on the couch.