Chips
Tim Dolan came out the door of the Sheep’s Head Tap, turned right, and walked down West Fourth Street. It was one of those mild spring evenings that convinces even the most skeptical Midwesterner that winter is finally over. The smell of plowed earth blew in from the west, the breeze tousling Dolan’s sandy hair. A young woman came down the sidewalk, pushing a stroller in which a baby was happily chewing his fist.
Dolan was a tall, slender man with long legs and a graceful stride. A walk always made him feel good, and tonight he felt pretty good already. He had consumed just enough Harp Lager to make him pleasantly drunk, but not enough to cause a hangover the next morning. Long experience at the Sheep’s Head had taught him how to avoid the ordeal of going to work with a hangover. He walked down Fourth Street, past Lafayette Square, to a block of row houses. When he reached the second house, he turned and climbed the worn limestone steps.
The door was unlocked. Dolan walked inside and closed it behind him. A dim ceiling light burned in the entryway. Straight ahead on the left, carpeted stairs and a walnut banister led up to the second floor. To the right, French doors led to the living room. Dolan hummed a popular tune as he opened the door and walked in.
Along the opposite wall, a floor lamp burned beside an oak table. Dolan stopped just inside the door. Something was wrong here. He started to walk over to the table, then saw something in his periphery, something coming toward him. Fast.
Suddenly on guard, he turned in that direction, but too late. The beer had slowed his reaction time. A heavy object struck his head with terrible force. He raised his hands to protect himself while struggling to stay on his feet. The object hit him again, even harder this time. He staggered to one side and felt himself falling. His body crashed into the table and fell to the floor.
Then everything went black.
Forever.
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