Every January 24th since 1943, George and Leroy toasted the hellish night they'd first met in a foxhole on Guadalcanal. It was conducted with little ceremony and much beer at the American Legion Hall.
Leroy's Cadillac skidded down the road. Street after street featured a battered "Road Closed" sign.
"Leroy, maybe we best forget this year and git on home 'fore somebody gits hurt."
As if fulfilling a prophecy, Leroy struck an unseen hydrant. George crashed through the windshield and lay broken and dying in the slushy gutter.
Driving slowly away, Leroy mumbled, "Damn! Now I REALLY need a beer!"