"It kind of matches the music," he told me.
I suppose he was right in a perfectly strange way. That was the thing about Pete, he always made such delightfully astute observations. The ectoplasmic stench of the couch was getting to me and so I ventured toward the submissive arbiter of alchohol for renewal of my sedative. All that it needed to pay up was a good hand job, just like everybody else.
"Much safer than drinking corn syrup," he said as I got up.