"One bite," he said, pressing the amber bottle in his hand against his pursed lips. He paused for a moment, contemplative, and then threw his head back, the remaining inch or so of liquid rushed down his gullet into the near gallon of booze already sloshing around in his swollen stomach. He leaned forward and set the empty bottle on the table with tonight's collection. Number nine. "One bite, all it takes."
He leaned back in to the mold his large body had gradually pressed into the couch over the years; it welcomed him, embraced him. He arched his neck and stared at the ceiling as if searching for an answer.
"It's funny, really," he said, "movie's come to life, man. It's like, I don't know, a conspiracy or somethin'. How could they get it exactly right? How could they know?"
There was a sharp looking man on TV -- slicked back hair, manicured eyebrows, rectangular tuft of hair clutching at the edge of the center of his bottom lip -- rushing around spraying some alleged magical elixir on a rainbow of carpet stains. After the discolored carpet had been dampened, he gracefully scrubbed each blemish with some patent-pending rag of sorts, excitedly explaining the "revolutionary" and "ground-breaking" science of the product in layperson's terms -- he could have said anything really, neither the product nor it's capabilities mattered; he could sell used chewing gum with his charisma -- all the while gesturing at the camera with his non-scrubbing hand, lustrous smile winning hearts, breaking hearts.
"Shit doesn't work worth a damn," he said reaching for another bottle, "pretty boy here sellin' cleaning products and people gettin' eatin' alive on the streets. Shit."
He ran his unoccupied hand through his rapidly balding hair, sparking all sorts of audible friction. His cat sauntered across the kitchen and disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. He let out a heavy sigh.
"Damn cat has no clue. Livin' on like nothin' different. Y'know what they say about ignorance."
He forced the cap off with the bottle opener on his key ring. A wet hiss permeated the room. In a single trip to his mouth he guzzled half of the bottle. From the TV, several definitely-not-paid-actors boasted about the efficacy of the product, their robotic, unblinking faces staring into the camera. Unsettling.
"Annette wants a divorce," he said, bleary-eyed, unmoving, "she doesn't love me anymore Xander. It's all fallin' apart. My marriage, the world, my life, all of it. She says our marriage was a mistake. She regrets it all, says I'm an asshole, a selfish, prickish asshole. No more Annette Finley, man. Just me know. Gordon goin' solo in this here apocalypse."