Artificial Limb

       Dean stumbled out the bar in 76 drunk with a bottle on the left while weeping his mouth with another. He'd been hacked over in a transaction and left with nothing, that beer probably was his last, got to enjoy it while it last. His step unbalanced and strafed in a little dance on the damp brick road. The right hand, a artificial, was emitting an electrical hum so annoying that he decided to turn it off and left it hanging. The weight pulled him down, his back almost arching.
       Taking another sip of cold beer from the bottle down the throat, he threw it on the sidewalk, clacked and rocked. At distance a dog barked but soon retrieved back to its trash-made cubicle. The dim street light flickered, neon signs of shops composing the atmosphere to a merry gray. He hailed at an incoming vehicle and vomited as if his whole heart was puking out before the car came to an stop.
       Everything today felt like a dream to him, so much misfortune, too many coincidence. He remembered logging into the trading platform at a remote location, using the state-of-the-art connection device to hide his track by fooling and covering with false-feed data transfer. The transaction was almost done, Dean stared hard at his terminal, the excitement pumped him up. Things were looking up for him when suddenly the pool of money redirected to an anonymous account under a matter of seconds. He double, no, trip checked with his own account, no money were going in. He was ripped off either from the buyer or someone with skills that wasn't suppose to be doing this.
       Circled by his worry and confusion, he turned to beer. It didn't help as he wished. More discomfort and dizziness followed the next morning. He woke up at his bed in a small room with the mattress on the floor engulfed in a pile of dirty clothing. Feeling the repetitive pounding in his head, he tried to lift his right hand but couldn't move it. He then realized that he turned it off last night, not wanting the soft electrical buzz to annoy him. He struggled up and walked toward the bathroom with great effort for the drugs to ease off his drunkenness.
       He saw the man in the mirror, pale skin, tired eyes, lose tissue, distorted teeth, a face of a total loser, scumbag.
       He flicked open the cabinet, a swarm of cockroaches rushed out in every direction, he caught one barehanded and squashed it and ate it with pleasure. After he popped the pill down the stomach, he drank water that came out from the rusted pipeline, the dirty yellow water were beyond drinkable.