He stumbled down the hallway, bleary-eyed, leaning against a wall for support. He couldn’t be that drunk, there was no way. He had had, what, two, three, five, four, six, seven shots, at most. That woman, she probably slipped something into his drink. Or that guy who brushed against him, he could’ve stuck a needle in his arm. He fumbled with his clothes, trying to roll up his shirt sleeves to get a good look at his biceps, but his fingers kept slipping off the buttons.

He gave up and kept stumbling along, determined to reach his apartment. Somehow, though, he wasn’t getting any closer. How long was this hallway, anyway? It was downright Kubrickian. Something wasn’t right.

Finally he reached his door and grabbed at the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. Locked. He grabbed the broom that was standing there next to him and he beat the broom’s handle into the door, over and over and over again, waking up the whole floor with the noise, until finally the handle snapped and he tripped and collapsed to the ground, the door and his head dented but both generally unharmed.