Kill Kevin.

I find myself in the company of diarrheal warblings. Cheap drinks are now failing to negate the corkscrew ringlets of Kevin the Karaoke singer. As a schmaltzy ballad plays he holds a cigarette lighter high in the air playfully swaying it in the fetid ambience of hipster moustache wax. I would love to tie him down and use his zippo to singe off every testicle follicle so he would no longer be able to produce pubic hair. His grating gait induces my white knuckles to grip my old fashioned. I exhale ever so slightly, release my grip and study my fingerprints on the glass that serves to separate as a barrier between bourbon and blood and bone.