|| sokoscrawls
Joseph rolled his head, his neck cracking through the motion. He made forceful eye contact with the waiter and gestured to his cup in very clear more please fashion. It had been a long day, but he had a glass of very nice whiskey, a booth to himself and there was a band (not half bad) playing on the rickety stage. Not a bad ending to a bad day.
And what, exactly, had made his day so horrible? The fluff piece on finding the best pacifier for your baby's mouth shape? The new mandatory weekly cooking segment? Possibly it was the fact that these were inserted into the broadcast in the stead of an actual, quality piece of journalism that he himself had forced through production.
He could smell cigarette smoke from.. somewhere. He hadn't touched a cigarette since he was seventeen years old, nor was it a habit he wanted to pick back up. But damn, did he love that smell. He closed his eyes- the musky smell, the gritty sound, the burning whiskey feel in his throat. Good. This was good, or he'd make it that way.
