Hunting for Pumpkins and Cheap Pours

Woke up still thinking about that dive bar you mentioned last night—fifty bucks for a fancy cocktail sounds like highway robbery, but five bucks at the door is practically calling my name. Before heading toward the entryway to see if the coat rack had any spare change, I dragged myself back over to that black milk crate. Dug through a dusty stack until I spotted that Smashing Pumpkins Siamese Dream album. Checked every blasted inch of the shrinkwrap—no hype sticker in sight. I tried using the sharp edge of my plastic prop to slit the plastic seam, nearly tumbling headfirst into the crate before finally ripping a jagged slit open.