Breakfast.
Opening the door, he caught the muted bell being held in place with duct tape. He came to the recognition that the bell stood for a metaphor for this town, held together with duct tape. Or still half drunk and blood sugar too low; he was thinking all kinds of weird crap. He scratched his scruffy cheeks, trying to remember the last time he slept, or showered. That would be the next order of business after some much-needed tuck.
Determined not to run and hide, he sat at the bar, staring Junior straight in the eye, he ordered, “Bangers and mash,” an afterthought, “please.”
Junior merely raised an eyebrow, handed him a menu, and moved down the bar to begin mixing some concoction.
Scanning over the choices it seemed in Texas there was something close to what he would call a prope
