Kevin Alonzo Bratcher
Watson came to in the rusty dumpster behind Pal’s lounge with a splitting headache and a sore ankle. He started piecing together how he got there when he noticed his head was covered in dried blood. Must have really irked someone in the bar, he thought, something Watson tended to do after a few pints of Guinness. He felt the small gash above his eye and decided he was fine; the eyebrow area would bleed vociferously from a paper cut. It looked worse than it was. Climbing to his knees he began to take inventory of his surroundings. It was all trash: newspapers, beer cans, a shredded leather barstool seat, exactly what you’d expect to find in a dumpster behind a dive bar. While stumbling to his feet Watson noticed a small plastic container near the corner. It was somehow wedged there so that it wouldn’t come out during any trash pickups. Watson shuffled over and wiggled it free; he fell backwards into the trash heap when he realized what it was.