Admittedly, this didn't usually happen to him.

There were a few universal truths about Tim Gutterson; he did not miss, his handwriting was absolute shit, and he could drink just about anyone under the table and still be able to drive home. Except for this night, apparently. The guy he was drinking against was twice his size, and usually that didn't matter because Tim had the alcoholic gene on his side, but he'd bitten off a little more than he could chew.

He still won, mind you. Just a little more marginally than he cared for. For his efforts, he got the red flannel off the dude's back. It was two sizes two big on Tim, the cuffs falling down past his fingertips, and a shitty prize for anything in the grand scheme of things, but he wore it anyway.

The bartender took his keys. It was fair enough; Tim wasn't in any state to drive. But it left him figuring out how the hell he was going to get home. Leaning against his truck that he couldn't currently drive, he pulled out his phone. It wasn't like he had many friends to call to come get him.

He settled on a contact to call and listened to it ring. It was late, but he was pretty sure Raylan was going to pick up anyway.