came from deep within his gut. With trembling fingers, he felt his tender side, and vaguely
remembered a black leather boot making contact with it. Where
had he been last night? His clogged brain did not seem willing
or even able to recall the events of the past twenty-four hours.
He opened his eyes long enough to close them quickly, as a ray of
sun streaming from the window pierced them deep down inside and
caused his head to begin throbbing even harder.
"Damn, it's cold in here," he said aloud, then, surprised at the sound of his voice
echoing off the walls, fell silent and closed his eyes again with
a loud sigh. Man, that must have been some party, he thought. He wondered
whose couch he was sleeping on. It needed to be restuffed, that
was for sure. And who in the hell was making all that racket?