The plotter

Sam, Sandra’s ex-husband, drowned his sorrows in alcohol as usual. It was nothing new. He was sitting in front of the tiny and worn-out television that was placed on an equally worn-out table in the rundown building in which he now lived. He was livid with rage and took solace in his bottles of alcohol, of which there were many scattered at his feet. He needed to start at his job, he knew, because if he didn’t, then he was going to be well and truly screwed. The television was on, but he stared at the images on it through blurred, unseeing eyes as he took another chug of the drink straight from the bottle, or at least, he tried to. The bottle was empty.

He got up, tottered drunkenly on his feet, and took a moment to regain his balance, before weaving drunkenly to a corner of the room to pick up another bottle of drink, which happened to be the last one. Damn! He needed to restock his supply, but where was the money to do so? He scowled unseeingly at the wall for a few moments, before