Read Yesterday's Gone (Season 5): Episodes 25-30 for Free Online

shithole joint before the jolly band of jerk offs started “singing” the song — again .
    On the list of worst songs ever made, “Friends in Low Places” had to be Number Fucking One. It was practically an anthem for ignorant hillbilly cousin-fuckers to be blue-ribbon proud of their ignorant hillbilly cousin-fucking ways.
    Fuck Garth Brooks for making this piece-of-shit song. Fuck him and fuck his sweat-stained nasty-ass hat.
    Boricio stood from his stool and felt the floor swaying beneath him. Despite punishing his liver for three weeks running, not to mention a lifetime of abuse before he met Rose, Boricio was still surprised by his level of inebriation. The world had gone from wavy to what-the-fuck, and that was when anything could happen, and something always did. 
    Boricio laughed as he made his way to the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t have to smell too much shit as he pissed before leaving.
    Halfway to the crapper, some asshole bumped into Boricio, and nearly sent him to the floor.
    He managed to stay off his ass, and spun to see what careless asshole had been stupid enough to brush against the devil.
    A giant Paul Bunyon-looking fuckstick with a Grizzly Adams beard and a nice big black prison tat of a swastika on his forearm stood there staring at Boricio as if he had been the one to bump into him.
    Grizzly blurted, “What?” 
    Boricio looked him up and down, trying not to laugh at an outfit straight out of racist biker central casting or a bad '90s action movie. 
    Torn acid wash jeans? Check. 
    Black leather jacket spattered with idiot patches? Check. 
    Red bandanna to hide his bald spot? Check. 
    Tattoos that proved how much he hated himself and every other race? Check. Check. Triple nipple I’ll turn you cripple, check!
    Big Billy Badass was trying so hard it made Boricio giggle like a bitch. 
    “Whatchyou laughing at, boy?”
    “Nothin’ honey, you just keep rockin’ that look.”
    Grizzly stared at Boricio, open mouthed. Boricio wanted to play more, but still had to squirt. 
    Boricio turned from Grizzly’s stare, giggling on his way to the bathroom and hoping that big didn’t mean dumb, and that Grizzly would be smart enough not to bother a man on his way to point Percy at the porcelain. 
    There was no way he would’ve looked back, even if he heard the bear charging, but Boricio didn’t need to worry. Grizzly was more interested in the hot piece of ass waiting for him to finish — a bleach blonde with an equal number of “I hate my daddy” tattoos, but still young enough that the miles of self-loathing, drug abuse, and whoring had yet to turn her pussy into a pile of rancid lunch meat.  
    At the door, he turned back to see what he knew he would see — the blonde eyeballing Boricio like she wanted him belly to belly and burying a bone. 
    Boricio winked, then went into the bathroom. He emptied his eel, then stepped back out and threw his arms around the bar. A song by that cunt Kelly Clarkson came on the jukebox, clearly pissed of a few of the patrons — the song was a few years old, but brand new by shithole bar standards, and not Garth Vader or George Fucking Straight.
    As he searched the bar for a reason to stay, Boricio saw Grizzly’s blonde coming toward him.
    Well, well, well. Lookee here.
    The blonde looked Boricio up and down on approach, passing him with a wink and a smile on her way into the lady’s room.
    Boricio followed her inside, not at all concerned about the restroom’s other occupants. Places like this — usually packed like opening day at a glory hole with meth heads, chicks fucked hard on the pain pill du jour, and drunks — women didn’t think dick about a dude doing the lumpy batter all over a bitch’s back in the stall.
    Girls gotta earn their drugs. 
    Boricio expected a crowded house, but the shit room was empty save for the blonde.
    The door swung shut behind Boricio. The blonde looked back, feigning surprise.
    “What are you doing in here?”
    “I