Snap, Crackle, Pop.

She took another swig from the glass neck, concealed by a rough brown paper bag. The splishy-splashy swish momentarily warmed her heart and the tips of her fingers. Her clothes were filthy and tattered, her dead rusty hair in thousands of twisted knots. From the ground up, she stood over the pavement casting a staggering shadow of menace. Unaware of her surroundings or the image she was portraying, the figure stepped out from behind the dumpster. Feeling her pocket, a wave of panic swept over her body. No. Not panic, that was the familiar wave of the alcohol seeping in. Taking a breath, she felt her pocket again. Still there. Knowing that everything must go exactly as planned, she took her time. Every second that she had left to take she took. Painstakingly inching along the brick wall and stumbling over broken glass and discarded items of clothing and used needles and used feelings and heavy regrets and mistakes and dirt and filth and shit, she made it to the corner. One hand out to steady her. One hand clutching the liquid. Both feet wobbling in the debris. Ouch. Eyes: meet the enemy, a blinding sheet of neon. City lights: you know the drill. Unprepared and temporarily sightless, she continued on towards the sleaze of open waters. By reflex, her hand sluggishly made it's way to her coat pocket. Still there. Giving her eyes a moment to adjust, she leaned up against a rigid doorway. Bringing the lip of the smooth glass to her own burnt lips, another swig was taken back. Burning her throat like hell and distinguishing the fire in her head all in one go, it headed down, down, down. Let gravity do it's thing damnit. Let it be.
Hey sugar.
Tilting her head towards the sound of the scruffy voice, she felt another wave hit her from behind. It felt damn good. Standing next to her was a puny little man, holding a large duffel bag and a smaller brown bag similiar to her own. From the way he was cautiously perching it upon his bare arm, she doubted it was liquor. Looking towards the face of the newcomer, she stopped dead upon spotting his poorly concealed neck. An ink black gash was gaping up at her, oozing with some sort of tar-like mush. Her first instinct was to run. Run fast, run far, start running now. However, her body screamed otherwise. She wasn't going anywhere and she especially wasn't doing it fast. Paralyzed, her eyes scanned the rest of his head. Seemingly intact, the only other damage seemed to be the sunrise of his left eye and some caked blood on his chin. Oh, and half of his upper lip was torn off. He looked a lot safer than most streetgoers.
Are you just going to stand there eyeing me or are you going to speak? Hey Dollface? Cat got your tounge?
She couldn't speak. Her tounge felt dry and lifeless in her mouth, her throat was a volcano of acid and cheap alcohol, her body was heavy. She glared at him with her fading green eyes and spit in his direction. Another swig, another wave, another check. Still there.