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shakes in disbelief.
    What would Gibby do ? he thinks and notices for the first time his cheeks are numb.
    “Listen, nothing personal,” one lonely step toward her. “Ehrm, I just don’t remember a lot about last night. I had a little too much to drink.”
    “Think so, huh?” Her eyes roll, watching a dark bird swoop overhead.
    Dean concentrates so hard on remembering this woman’s face his vision whites out.
    Nothing.
    The only time Deshler’s ever embarrassed is when someone recognizes him and he has no clue who they are. The Cliff Drinking style has almost no RECORD button. Rarely more than a sliver is ever recalled about the hours spent between sucking down cocktails and waking up with Broken Piano for President thumping between a headache. According to friends, he is incredibly productive in the Cliff Drinking state. During the last year alone, ten known women were swayed enough to make out, some even further. None of whom Dean remembers. Other times, witnesses claim to have seen Deshler escorting elderly women across the street, competing in spelling bees, winning Monopoly and, once, adopting a three-legged puppy.
    Some sweet perfume, like vanilla, manages to find Deshler’s nose across the icy air. Her smooth shoulders grow studded with goose pimples. “Does the Beef Club ring any bells?” the woman says.
    Hangover bells in Deshler’s ears ring a thousand decibels loud. However, none are connected to a Beef Club.
    “Dod gammit,” she hisses and inspects her feet for a long, long moment. “I’ve gotta get to work soon. Do you want a ride downtown?”
    “Yes, please, that would be fantastic,” he says, hoping that’s the right answer.
    She is speaking into a red cell before he finishes. “Hey, it’s me,” she waits a few seconds. “Yep, okay. Well, can you send someone to pick me up?” She waits another few breaths and makes a dramatic hand sweep. “Yep…well I’m here with the one and only Deshler Dean. Okay, see you then.”

The cosmonaut swallows hard. Lungs and guts float up his throat. Television only shows astronauts spinning in circles, chomping on floating candies and loose droplets of water up in space. Nobody mentions the zero-gravity phobia of having all those important organs vomited up.
    A few hundred miles above Moscow, he curses in thick Russian chunks. It’s one thing to let millionaire thrill-seekers tag along on missions, he thinks, but this is too much.
    The cosmonaut has dedicated his life to space exploration and practically abandoned a family back on Earth. I am a scientist , he reminds himself, not a short-order cook .
    Knowing he is out of options, the cosmonaut stops and listens to the breathing apparatus hum. It’s calming. Moscow agreed to another get-rich-quick scheme, which he’ll never see a ruble of. But there is no other choice.
    Stepping out of the airlock and into the depressing blackness of outer space, the cosmonaut tows a plump thermal suit—an exact copy of his own. A shiver works up the Russian’s body.
    Ten minutes into the spacewalk, the cosmonaut releases the tether connecting him to the limp suit. It twists and contorts like a bronze medal gymnast. He stares directly into the protective face shield and curses while it swims into orbit. Through the shield he sees the suit is stacked full with freeze dried hamburgers.
    He wishes the suit good riddance and floats back to the station to repair a solar panel.
    A Winters Olde-Tyme Hamburger logo is sewn onto the drifting suit’s chest.

“Insult to freaking injury,” the formerly dead woman says, a wet towel pressed against her forehead. Deshler watches watery blood splash across the cushions of a very expensive car. “The Monte Cristo Burger. That piece of crap is the last thing I want to see today. I’ve said it about a billion times, but seriously, can’t we come up with something better than a deep-fried hamburger? Honestly, I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Did you know there was an