Rudge checked the clock on his kitchen wall: he’d made it home with minutes to spare.

He was exhausted. He hung his jacket on the hook, slipped off his shoulder holster and laid it on the countertop.

He rolled the foot-long Chicken & Bacon Ranch sandwich out of the Subway wrapper and put it on a plate, then opened the bag of Lay’s potato chips and spilled them out alongside it. He took the pickle jar and a can of Bud from the fridge, and then set his dinner on the table next to his chair.

Tonight, he would limit himself. He’d started the day hungover, and it had been rough.

So tonight: beer only.

But the thought of just beer by itself was a sorry thought indeed; he’d had a rough day, and he deserved something with a little more heat.

Rudge’s sink was filled with plates and glasses; he selected three Dolly Parton shot glasses (a campy gift from his brother Mikey after a Dollywood trip) and lined them up on the side table. He splashed an ounce or so of Jack Daniels into each, then screwed the top tight and shut the bottle back in the cabinet.

He lined up the remotes on the table next to the plates, then kicked off his shoes, unbuttoned and dropped his pants. The Velcro fasteners on his ankle holster opened with a satisfying rip; he let the holster and the little silver .32 revolver slide onto the carpet. He checked that the chair was pointing directly at the TV, then pulled the lever, easing the recliner back into position. Finally, he calibrated the height of the footrest.

Rudge sat down, sighing heavily, and hoisted his sock-clad feet up onto the rest.

He lifted six inches worth of cold cuts and feathery bread to his face, tore off a giant bite, and chewed contentedly. He swallowed, took a sip of cold beer, then picked up the first shot and downed it, chasing it with a huge gulp of beer. He put the can back down, sighed again, and chomped into his sandwich.

The overloaded sandwich needed support, so he used the remotes one by one with his free hand. The Warner Bros. shield logo in black-and-white silently filled the screen, then the sound kicked in, a tinny shrill of brass and strings over rolling tom-toms as a map of Africa appeared. Then the star credits—Bogart, Bergman, Henreid—and finally, splashed across the whole continent, Casablanca…

David Rudge wriggled his butt deeper into the recliner, pressed back, and sighed again.