Wooden head and sandpaper tounge

[Dannyrulx†]

One way to wake up was to be gently awoken by your $20 digital alarm clock at a sensible time in the morning, and to be prepared and ready for the day ahead. This time however, Maria had none of the 'luxury' that her own house would have.

This was mostly because she was about a hundred miles from her house and in one of the biggest apartments she'd ever seen. It was only a ten minute walk from the strip, and she'd wondered how much it'd cost to buy when she walked in. If she had had a single jot of clarity, she'd be wondering how much this fucking mess would cost to clear up, however luckily  such questions went unthought, as a rather more pressing one was on her brain and tongue.

"What the actual fuck happened last night?" It took her hangover-addled brain a few seconds to realise that she'd practically shouted the sentence out, and another few seconds to realise that holy sweet mother of fuck she was in a bed with about five other people.

It was often said that Italians are only Catholic at two times; when they are born, and when they are lying on their deathbed. Now, Maria thought, would not be an entirley terrible idea to add another time to be Catholic to her life: In a bed, with the worst hangover she'd ever experienced in almost two years of binge drinking, still slightly high from the sheer amount of pot in the air and with a tounge that felt like it had been rubbed raw with sandpaper.

Her first thought, however, was not water, but who she was in a bed with, and had she slept with any of them. By the fact that all the guys were, by and large, clothed, and she highly doubted she had been so out-of control enough to make out, and subsequently fuck some random chick (although it was a small probability,) she was in the clear.

The bed was massive and incredibly comfortable, but now was not the time to lie back in it. Her watch flashed ten in the morning, and since almost everyone else was either asleep or blacked out, she was in the perfect condition to flee the scene of the crime. First, however, would be coffee.

Slowly, she picked her way through the disaster zone that was pretty much every single room in this building. Like the aftermath of so many parties, it looked like some mad scientist had re-created Hurricane Katrina and unleashed it here. In the bedroom, a pillow was shredded, feathers spilling out of pretty much every square inch of the decimated fabric.

Apart from the five in the bed, there were two more in the room. A guy had somehow climbed up ontop of the four-poster bed, and his skinny ass had meant that the curtains had been enough to hold him in place. They looked to be shifting further and further apart as he turned in his sleep, but she thought it would be a good alarm clock for him. The other guy was slumped in a corner, back propped up by yet another pillow.

The main area of the penthouse was far worse. The chandelier was in peices on the floor, and a girl had one of the ornate, twisting bulbs in her hand. Judging by the fact that her bra was on the floor and her panties were askew, she really hoped that whoever owned this place didn't re-use the bulb in any way. Still, it was a fairly nice view to have amongst the rest of the passed-out party goers, trashed paintings and furniture, and spills of questionable content.

Finally, however, she reached the holy grail of the entire damn apartment. The coffee machine. Around it stood a boy and a girl, both bleary, and she noted another guy swearing at the machine. Something about it not working. She took one look at it and the flashing red light displayed before she pulled the water canister out the side, and filled it up at the tap. Slamming it back in with more force than strictly nessacary, she turned to the surprised failed barrista boy. "You're a fucking moron mate, so move over and let me get my damn coffee."

Two minutes later, and with a rather shocked set of teens in her wake, she downed the espresso in less than half a second. She paused to down a glass of water, then shotgunned the other two, the rush of hot liquid and placebo caffeine almost immediately perking her up, and dulling the roaring edge of the drum and base in her head.

Two people. That's all she needed to find, and then she could leave. Santina was passed out ontop of some drunk frat boy, so all it took was a slap and a haul before she was up, but Cameron was a different matter. Finally, she noticed the ensuite tucked away behind a mirror in the bedroom, and discovered him with his dick half out and shirt soaked underneath the shower head.

At last, with her two half-delirious friends in tow, she pushed open the door onto the top lobby. Even this place hadn't gone unscathed, judging by the vomit spilling over the edges of a potted plant pot and the spray-painted 'FUCK THE WILDCATS' on the elevator doors.

As the doors opened onto the lobby, she noticed a well-dressed couple, two small suitcase in tow, enter through the revolving door of the building. The woman looked at her strangley, but the father stopped to ask her if there had been a party. She didn't bother to answer him, instead walking out into the already-heating Nevada sun.

Now where the fuck had the car been parked?