If the guy had trouble getting hard, Ida would send me to bring up towels or soap or a bottle of whiskey.
As Perry downed his fifth glass of scotch, he couldn't help but wonder just how many it would take to kill him. How many before his breathing slowed down, and he began to seize. Ultimately ending when he choked on his own vomit from the depressed nerves from his gag reflex brought on by alcohol poisoning. He wished he could escape this life, escape from the stress and demands of the hospital, be free of Bobbo's clutches, and finally be able to shake of Jordan for good. Alcohol so far seemed to be the closest outlet he had. That and maybe the few golden moments a day he spent berating Newbie and...
'Shit.' He cursed to himself, reaching for the decanter once again, 'I have got to stop thinking about that kid in my off time.'
But who is he to follow his own advice?