The Last Bottle

by Michael Morris

My brother was just sitting over in the corner of the floor by the front door. He had a stain on the front of his blue suit jacket from where I threw the beer at him. For the first time in my life, he was shutting the hell up. I guess I surprised him. He just sat there looking at me like was just too damned stunned to know what to say.

“So if you don’t mind, prick face, I’m going to try and watch the rest of my show.” And I did. I figured he’d leave. I didn’t care.


See, I was already having a pretty shitty day when he showed up, in the middle of my show, to “check on me.” He’s always doing that. Spending his lunch hour coming home, prying in my business.

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