Imprint 2/10/21 He pulled the tab of the beer can. It made that familiar metallic snap immediately followed by that hiss. The sounds he’d heard thousands of times before. This was different. It had been years since the last time. Back then, he’d been able to open two cans at once, one with each hand. He’d chug them down back to back, finishing a case in a matter of minutes. He was proud of that, and would accept any challenge that came his way. One case in 5 minutes. Why not two cases in 10? It never occurred it wasn’t actually a talent. Not until the night he woke up behind the wheel, staring straight into the headlights of that Peterbilt. He veered just in time to miss the truck’s massive metal grill and certain death. When he gained control, he sat on the shoulder shaking, crying, cursing, promising that he’d never do that again. He didn’t know if he was promising himself or his god, but it was a promise he intended to keep. That was many years ago. The memory of the night still sho...
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