Ethan entered Max's room. The curtains were drawn, and the air was thick with the scent of regret and cheap alcohol. Max was curled up on his side, a pillow muffling his whines.
"Max, buddy. You alive?" Ethan asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Max groaned, slowly removing the pillow. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his head pulsed with a thousand tiny hammers. "E-Ethan? Oh God, I'm dying. I've ruined everything. Don't look at me."
"Nonsense, Max. You're just paying the interest on your fun debt."
[MEDICAL NOTE: The human body is a fascinating machine. It can survive fragmentation grenades but is crippled by two glasses of cheap tequila. Priority: Hydration, Electrolytes, and maybe a priest.]
Max sat up slowly. "My God, my head. And my car! My Cayenne! It was at that terrible bar, The Blind Pig. I parked it right outside. It's probably been stolen by now, or towed!"
