Walter Regin sat on the edge of his tattered couch, staring through a thick haze of smoke at the flat panel Sony that was mounted neatly on the wall. He had no idea how long he had been transfixed, though the numbness in his ass suggested that it had been a considerable amount of time. Moving to stand, a burning pain seared into the webbing between his left middle and forefinger. Uttering a semi-conscious groan, Walter looked down to see a cigarette burning down to the filter. Reacting with a sort of waking over-awareness, he jumped up and emphatically stamped out the butt.

“Jesus,” Walter moaned, almost as though the lord and savior had appeared and proposed an evening of drunken charades at a retirement home.

As he ran his fingers through his graying hair, he was struck by a surge of self-awareness about what had just happened. Nervous laughter spilled out of him in rivulets. The image of the smoldering carpet resurfaced in his mind, which opened the floodgates between his gut and his mouth. A torrent of laughter, nearly hysterical in both cadence and in pitch, exploded outward, echoing off of the walls in his humble apartment. Walter raised a hand to wipe away the tears of mirth that had welled in his eyes. Instead, he knocked his glasses off with enough force to launch them over the coffee table, which stood halfway between his couch and the television.

Slowly inching his way towards the TV, wondering what the probability that he would crush his glasses was, a fresh wave of laughter engulfed him. Shuffling awkwardly to the side, Walter reached a hand out for the wall to steady himself.

Get a grip, Walt. Do you really want to spend your last moments on earth braying like a jackass?

This thought served as a swift backhand across the rosy cheeks of a drunk. Last moments? Where the hell did that come from? He thought back, but could only remember getting snapped out of a daze by his own burning flesh, anything prior to that was lost. He knelt down, feeling around for his glasses, the question of just what the hell ‘last moments’ meant, rattling around his head like the final Camel in a pack. While the question ticked over and over in his mind, he found his spectacles and returned them to their proper perch.

Cancer? Is it cancer?

Walter’s mind was throwing out answers to satiate the question, which continued to eat at him.

No, it’s not cancer. I just had a checkup two weeks ago and, aside from some chronic back pain, everything was fine. Definitely not cancer, no sir.

There was a strengthening thunder inside his head, running from the top of his spine and tracking all the way around to his temples. Rubbing his neck, Walter stood up slowly from his crouch, grimacing as his knees protested. He still felt dazed, like he had taken a solid blow to the head. The same head which had not only spawned the ‘last moments’ comment, but was working tirelessly at driving Walter insane trying to figure out just what the fuck it meant.

Think, Walter. Focus. You came home and turned on the TV. You were looking for the Blues game, wondering why the hell they were playing at 5 o’clock on a Sunday.

His eyes drifted to the coffee table. Sitting neatly on top like a Sherpa perched on high was a bottle of Elijah Craig. This discovery sparked a quick internal debate over whether or not he should imbibe and how it might affect his already clouded mind. Apparently Walter’s good little angel had taken the day off, as Walter was already walking toward the freezer.

He opened the door, gathered four ice cubes, and dropped them into his glass. A smile had crept across his face, temporarily displacing the increasing unease he had been feeling. He swung the freezer door shut, and was greeted by a picture of his four-year-old son, James. Presto. Shazam. Walter’s heart sank into his stomach, his small smile slowly melting into a quivering shape of despair.