There is Flanagan! Lying in a heap, as usual. You nudge him with your toe, trying to remember to wipe your toe later on. "Flanagan, wake up, man! I'm stuck in a dream. I can't get out." Flanagan just lays there. He sure knows how to make the ground look soft and comfortable. You nudge him again. He looks up at you, eyes still closed. He groans and drops his head back down. It looks like you are going to have to go it alone, without a sidekick. You notice a bottle in Flanagan's back pocket, one of those pocket-sized bottles he specializes in. You would think he would smarten up and just get bottle-sized pockets so he could carry more booze around with him. You reach down and gently pull the bottle from his pocket. Just as you thought--Listerine. And not even the minty kind. No-sir-ee, Flanagan is as old school as they get, he likes the Barbicide flavor of Listerine. He thinks that he can pass out anywhere and nobody else will dare get into his stash. He thinks he is the only one tough enough to swallow down the industrial strength stuff. Well, he will have a surprise. You down it in one gulp. Yeehaw, like a bucking bronco. You feel invigorated, ready for any kind of germ this town can throw at you. You could use some female company. To stroll along the boulevards with a spring in your step, go to page 9. You start to wonder what exactly resides in Flanagan's fanny pack. Could it be another bottle? Of course, you would have to roll him over to find out. To give it a shot, go to page 20.