Tyson woke up and couldn't see a thing. It was so bright he quickly shut his eyes again. Eyes closed, he reached down to feel around him. He ran his hands up and down a plethora of garbage. "What the hell," Tyson muttered. He put his hand up to his head like a visor and opened his eyes. As they adjusted to the light a soft breeze kissed his face, providing a source of energy for Tyson. Finally able to see, Tyson looked all around him. Bottles, cans, glasses. That's all he could see. His saw familiar Jim Beam, good ole' Miller Light, and his favorite mugs from Cece's that said "This is my GoGo Juice." There was a sea of this trash. No. Not a sea. A mountain. And Tyson sat right at the peak. Frozen in fear and shock, he sat for hours staring the the piles of empty containers below. "This is hell. I'm in hell," he said to himself. After what felt like days of sitting paralyzed he heard it. "
Call me Mr. Rattlebone. Holy Ghost who haunts your home. They don't know you like I know you. Call me Mr. Rattlebone." He finally woke up.
Tyson sat up with a jerk. Immediately his head was swimming.
"Hey buddy welcome back!" Joe the bartender said. "You had me nervous man. Let me pour you a stiff one to take the edge off that headache. On the house man, on the house."
"No, Joe. I'm alright," Tyson said, pulling himself up.
"Whao man. That two-by-four has you really messed up. You refusing a free drink? Thats unheard of man."
"I'll take a glass of milk and some Advil. Please and thank you," Tyson said, rubbing his forehead. He was shaken. Shaken all the way down to the bones.
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