My Cardboard Balcony

Marsha had a history - one that she told openly, usually in the bars she frequented, downing ales and tequila shots with reckless abandon. She told me one night, after I was decompressing from a tough day on the ranch, that she had once smashed a man's skull in with a full bottle of champagne. It wasn't a blow strong enough to kill him, she clarified, but it sure left a dent in his head for the rest of his life. "His friends called him 'Concave Carl' after that," she said to me. "Needless to say, he never put his hand up my skirt ever again."