It’s late and chilly, though, for you, it’s difficult to tell in your inebriated state. You’re slumped over, dressed lamely in your shifty getup. It’s a Wednesday, and just like every other, you’ve spent the evening drinking away your sorrows like a scumbag.

The sketchy guy sat next to you on the dingy bench stares shamelessly. He’s scrutinizing you with a stare. He says nothing for quite a while, but he eventually speaks up.

“You should be home.” He mutters. That is, if you even have one.