Chapter 11, Part II
The Morning Tells All
I wake up on the floor. I can’t move my arms, and I feel something smooth and plasticky against my face. When I open my eyes, the ceiling is a maze of color and slowly moving dots. And a large brown blob with a single white stripe. And a shower of green confetti.
“Hamster?” God. I sound like Tom Waits doing a Louis Armstrong impression.
“Good morning, my little cash cow. This is your bonus for last night.”
I’m surrounded by presidents: Washington, Lincoln – Franklin?
“Jesus. What’d I do? Sleep with you?”
He laughs entirely too much. “Now that would be funny!”
I go to give him a playful slap, and discover why it is I can’t move. I’m wrapped up tight in a sleeping bag.
Hamster grins. “I don’t know what major corporations those kids’ parents own, but last night we separated them from large chunks of their trust funds. The biggest night in Karz Bar hiss-tow-ree!”
Hamster kisses me on the cheek – for him, an exceptional gesture. He claps his hands together and gives them a robber-baron rub.
“Now! What does my prize employee wish for breakfast? Sausages? I’ve got kielbasa.”
Just the word “kielbasa” makes my stomach gurgle. “Ooh! Can I start with a glass of Sprite? By the way, what was that evil drink you gave me last night?”
“Hamstah Hooch. Its exact ingredients shall remain a secret.”
“But probably include tequila.”
“Probably.”
He hops to his feet like a Ukrainian dancer and heads for the kitchen. “Sprite followed by coffee!” he declaims.
I snake my hand up next to my throat and locate a zipper pull.
“Hey!” I croak. “What happened to Ruby?”
Hamster leans into the room with a salacious expression. “Ruby was last seen leaving the bar with Harry Baritone.”
“Oh,” I say. Ten seconds later, the information arrives at my brain. “Really?!”
Next: Friends?
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image: Rupert Hart. Photo by Anne Gelhaus
The Morning Tells All
I wake up on the floor. I can’t move my arms, and I feel something smooth and plasticky against my face. When I open my eyes, the ceiling is a maze of color and slowly moving dots. And a large brown blob with a single white stripe. And a shower of green confetti.
“Hamster?” God. I sound like Tom Waits doing a Louis Armstrong impression.
“Good morning, my little cash cow. This is your bonus for last night.”
I’m surrounded by presidents: Washington, Lincoln – Franklin?
“Jesus. What’d I do? Sleep with you?”
He laughs entirely too much. “Now that would be funny!”
I go to give him a playful slap, and discover why it is I can’t move. I’m wrapped up tight in a sleeping bag.
Hamster grins. “I don’t know what major corporations those kids’ parents own, but last night we separated them from large chunks of their trust funds. The biggest night in Karz Bar hiss-tow-ree!”
Hamster kisses me on the cheek – for him, an exceptional gesture. He claps his hands together and gives them a robber-baron rub.
“Now! What does my prize employee wish for breakfast? Sausages? I’ve got kielbasa.”
Just the word “kielbasa” makes my stomach gurgle. “Ooh! Can I start with a glass of Sprite? By the way, what was that evil drink you gave me last night?”
“Hamstah Hooch. Its exact ingredients shall remain a secret.”
“But probably include tequila.”
“Probably.”
He hops to his feet like a Ukrainian dancer and heads for the kitchen. “Sprite followed by coffee!” he declaims.
I snake my hand up next to my throat and locate a zipper pull.
“Hey!” I croak. “What happened to Ruby?”
Hamster leans into the room with a salacious expression. “Ruby was last seen leaving the bar with Harry Baritone.”
“Oh,” I say. Ten seconds later, the information arrives at my brain. “Really?!”
Next: Friends?
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image: Rupert Hart. Photo by Anne Gelhaus
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