First 100 words of my noir novella. How does it do?

The indignity of it all. The demon of it. I stood on the edge of the abyss of nothing, a rotten railing the last thing between me and the bleakness of nowhere. Dizzy, drunk, out of my mind. A bottle dangled from my hand, a greasy railing from the other. The wind smacked me in the face. I retched and heaved, my stomach empty but my throat still full. I buckled, the railing suddenly supporting my weight. The world spun upside down – the stars reeled lower than my feet. I finally slid into the abyss and passed out. <br><br>&#x200B;<br><br>&#x200B;<br><br>&#x200B;<br><br>&#x200B;<br><br>&#x200B;<br><br>&#x200B;<br><br>&#x200B;Additional info: The character is a private investigator and takes place in the 1930s, in a small city on the outskirts of a big city. Flies in from out of town and has been there a few months now. Loner, alcoholic. This is the end of the prologue. The story is heavily influenced by Charles Bukowski; it's a throwback to the hard-boiled noir genre while also being a modern take on it.