My father's cars were always beat to shit. He drove drunk every night coming home from his office, so it wasn't a surprise that he dented his cars all up.
The trunk of his car was filled with empty vodka bottles. He would drive to a liquor store, buy a quart of Smirnoff, drink it while driving home, and put it in his trunk when he was done. Bottles were stacked under his bed. Bottles were stacked on the top of his closet. All empty. He would disappear into his closet to take a stiff belt once he got home.
In later years, he abandoned all pretense of hiding his drinking. He could come home, pour an ice tea glass of vodka, and slug it down in one shot. He'd be asleep on the couch a half hour later. The fighting would start when he woke up.
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