This week’s prompt is Heiress
It was the same deal every morning Liza opened the FuBar Lounge: a whiff of stale beer and the sticky-sweet aroma of bourbon hanging limbo-like in the air took her back thirty-some years.
Dad: Lay sprawled between our new, and already-stained pillow furniture and the baby-poop-colored shag carpeting.
Mom: spilled face down on the waterbed—riding the waves— with a half-empty (half-full?) bottle of Jim Beam.
I come by it honestly, she reasoned.
She opened her breakfast, a longneck Bud, with her teeth—a skill learned from Dad.
Liza chased it with a birth control pill.
The buck stops here.