Chapter One: Bad Habits (ItNoR)

"What happened at Saint George's Casino last night?" The officer stood across the table from Paul Jackson. This hadn't been his first time in this situation, not even his second.
"Funny thing is," Paul looked the officer straight in the eyes, smiling. "I don't really remember, I was drunk beyond belief."
"Can you at least tell me what happened before you blacked out," the officer said angrily. He had seen multiple cases like this before, but not one where the suspect seemed nonchalant.
"Of course."
November 27th, 2500
Saint George's Casino, Bedford
2:34 A.M.
Paul Jackson 
The casino was alive as ever, thousands of people having a regular night. Paul Jackson was one of them, going to the casino mainly just to get their exclusive whiskey. He was probably the most recognizable person there, always wearing a tucked in red shirt underneath a leather jacket. He took a seat at the main bar.
"Hey, Paul. Let me guess, Whiskey?," the bartender said. He didn't even need to ask that question, of course he would order whiskey. Why wouldn't he? He slid a glass over to Paul, who looked very satisfied.
"Thanks," he took a large sip. "You guys think of selling this shit at stores, this is amazing." After having four or five glasses, he was completely wasted. He could barely see straight, stumbling out of the bar. This, like many things, wasn't the first time for Paul. He had a drinking problem like his father before him.
"Oi, Chaffin!," a man shouted from in front of Paul. It was a very tall and well dressed man, wearing a tuxedo with the logo of the casino on it. "Chaffin! What did I tell you about drinking on the job?!" Paul stumbled towards him, falling over once he walked onto the street. The man ran out to help him.
"Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else," the man said apologetically. He helped Paul stand up, realizing that he was drunk beyond belief. "Are you alright?"
"Watch it, buddy. I'm Paul Jackson, I fuckin- I fuckin...I..." Paul fell over. The man watched in disgust as Paul vomited onto the street. He couldn't keep his eyes off of him.
"Damnit. Come on sir, I'll get you some help," he offered to help him up.
"That's all I remember, officer," Paul said. The officer sighed. He pulled out a document and put it on the table, opening it to reveal pictures of a corpse.
"Do you know who this is?" The officer pulled out a pen and a notepad.
"Yeah. That's the guy who helped me up," Paul said confused. He wondered how this man had died and why somebody would do that. "Oh, no."
The officer nodded. "You killed him. His name was Nigel Teller, a man who had dedicated his whole life to that casino,' the officer stared at Jackson, who was now in disbelief. "He was a valet."
"I...I was drunk. I-" the officer cut him off. He wrote something down in his notepad and closed it. The officer signed once more, this time out of relief.
"Your court date is December 3rd, 2500. If found guilty you will be facing charges of public intoxication and 3rd degree murder," the officer placed handcuffs on Jackson. This was his first time in his life facing serious charges. He wondered if he would be found guilty, and if he did, how long would he live when the guns fired?
"You have the right to remain silent, all you say can and will be used in a court of law."