by T.L. Murphy
He was dying to move in, dying to give me five hundred bucks to sleep in the basement. The first night, he was so happy to be under a roof, he bought a case of beer and drank it all, turned the radio all the way up and danced by himself until four in the morning. Passed out on the floor. His cigarette burned a hole in the carpet. He slept till noon the next day, called in sick and lost his job. You should have heard him screaming about the government conspiracy. Even the cats were afraid of him.