a good, long, healthy drink of bourbon.
He wiped his lips and came back. No. 7 was still running over. He looked at the type. There was a guideline that said “Third Add—Nazi Werewolves.” High-Pockets turned on his heel and went back to the locker room. This time he had two drinks, and when he finished he weaved a little more.
“Monkeying with souls,” he muttered, “is dangerous business.”
He was thankful the story had only three takes. First he thought he would dump the third take in the metal pot, but when he picked it up it was so hot that even he, with calloused fingertips from handling hot slugs for twenty years, couldn’t hold it. So he dumped both takes and turned off the motor, then went to lunch.
That is, he borrowed a dollar from the chairman and started for the restaurant. But he passed a saloon on the way, and decided he was more in need of a drink.