Posted by A man spilled out of a black SUV at the top of a long, snowy driveway, his breath visible like smoke in the cold air. In his guts sloshed an indigestible amount of champagne and absinthe, and by some miracle, he didn’t slip on the frozen concrete and bail into the thick snow; but rather, slid down in his shell-smooth dress shoes, numb, happy, and straight into his front door retinal scanner, whose red laser fired on his loosened tuxedo bowtie. Then his Adam’s apple. Then his bloodshot eyes. Then—nothing.
Check out “Call Center” at Unnamed Journal, issue 40!