Thank the gods, he muses, picking up the trash. That was one hell of a New Year's party. Beer bottles everywhere, chewed lemon wedges from the Tequila drinkers, dirty plastic bowls with leftover chili. Three hundred and sixty-four days till it all starts over again. Oh no, sixty-five - it's a leap year, after all. He remembers the stripper his friends had brought along, and the guests he does not remember inviting, but his memory must have become somewhat blurred later, because he cannot, for the love of whisky, remember why there is a severed head swimming in the toilet bowl.
[I hope you enjoyed my little Yule madness, which I did not announce anywhere. I wanted to proove to myself that I can still write something besides the novels and the usual madness, and I wanted to share some stories with you between the years. I wish you a lovely and story-filled new year!]