She looked strange. Her face was not quite as beautiful as it had been just a few moments earlier. Scruff Baby Jones pushed her away, an overwhelming panicky feeling built in his stomach. He just didn’t feel right. As the room span and swam like a shipwreck going under, he fell to his knees and puked on the floor. The people sitting nearest to him jumped up and stood to watch this new vomit-led entertainment. They grinned menacingly as they watched. He looked up at them, eyes pleading for help but their faces just grimaced back at him. Nobody stepped forward to help.

The bartender, noticed the commotion, glanced over and smiled a sinister but satisfied smile. He put down the glass he was cleaning, came out from behind the bar and slowly walked over to the heaving retching figure on the floor.

“Better come with me. Bit too much, I reckon. You can sleep it off upstairs.”
The bartender hoisted the, now still, figure of Scruff Baby Jones up by the arms, slung it over his shoulder and carried it off up the stairs.

A guitar leaned sadly against the bar, and as he bounced his way up the stairs Scruff Baby Jones caught a glimpse of it. He couldn’t ever recall feeling as sad as he did in that one moment. That guitar would be the last thing Scruff Baby Jones would ever see. And he knew it. He closed his eyes and gave in.

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