The old drunk staggers out of bed at the hot-sheets motel along old Route 13 fully clothed, reeking of Old Grand-Dad and Lucky Strikes, fumbling for his drug store sunglasses to shield his bloodshot eyes from the pitiless noonday sun. He shuffles barefoot among the empty liquor bottles on the floor, empties his bladder at the toilet that won't flush properly then vents at his laptop for a minute and 19 seconds, screaming into the void in the desperate hope that somebody will actually care enough to send him a little validation or even money to cover his back taxes. His task finished, he vomits quietly on his Members Only jacket for the third time this week and slumps in the rickety motel chair, completely spent, oblivious to the manager's pounding fist on the flimsy motel door echoing through the squalid room, portending forcible eviction.