Figures it's Cinco de Mayo...

[boston_bruiser]

What do you get when you combine a sailor, emotional distress, a bottle of ambrosia, two bottles of Smirnoff, three bottles of Jack Daniels, three bottles of Jim Beam, three bottles of San Miguel, a can of Keystone, and one of those cute little one-shot vodka bottles?

If you answered "a hangover that'd kill an entire pack of bull elephants", you're on the right track.

Voodoo doesn't have a clue how he didn't die from alcohol poisoning last night, but right now he's wishing he did. Alyx was kind enough to leave a few bottles of water and a blister pack of pain meds on the end table for him. The waters he drained almost instantly, but the pain meds he was sane enough to limit his consumption of - to four at a time.

Neither of them have done much good. Not against this beast.

So he's settled into taking over the couch, covering himself in a blanket, sticking industrial-grade earplugs in his ears, curling into a ball, and wishing he'd hurry up and die already.

Botherable. Because the mun's a sadist.

[Tinytags: Tommy Gavin, Wing]

Comments

[gavin62truck]

...Well, this is a familiar scenario.

The water, the pain meds, the almost palpable throbbing pain in the air that can crumple a grown man into the fetal position.

"Jeezus Christ, man. You look like shit."

Tommy doesn't bother to lower his voice. Besides, Voodoo's got earplugs.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo recognizes the voice, if only because that's the only thing he's got to go on - you'd need a crowbar to pry his eyelids open right about now.

"Fuckin' mercy-kill me already."

He's a firefighter. Firefighters've got plenty of access to blunt-force and sharpish instruments, right?

[gavin62truck]

"Uh huh. Yeah, sorry, pal, can't do that. Great short-term solution; long-term, not so much. Shit, how much did you drink?"

[boston_bruiser]

"...a lot."

The casualties of last night's binge are spread out all around the couch. The waitrats will clean up a lot, but they're leaving this to him. Once he sobers up.

[gavin62truck]

"Ah. So this was all you, and not, like, a party of twenty. Okay, then. Lemme ask you something, have you met your liver yet? 'Cause I bet it's got a few things to say, namely, 'Fuck you, you bastard.' I mean, Jeezus Christ. I hope that whatever you were tryin' to forget is well forgotten now."

Tommy's not judging. This is how he sympathizes. Really.

[boston_bruiser]

It's also how Voodoo'd sympathize. With considerably more profanity, but the manner would be much the same.

"Mmn. Forgot it. Forgot where I left my keys. Forgot where I left my shoes."

They're not lost, per se. It's just that they're beside the couch just out of his view and every time he moves his head to look for them it feels like there's a sumo wrestler sitting on his skull.

[gavin62truck]

Tommy can see his keys and shoes, so there's no concern there. "Don't worry 'bout 'em, they're fine. Listen, d'you want some black coffee? Or maybe directions to the nearest toilet so you can puke your esophagus out?"

bothered you shall be then, sir!

[knightoflight]

No, wait, Wing knows this. It was on the quiz! And if it was wrong to lie bleeding on the floor without asking for help, it seems to Wing that it would also be wrong to be a blanket-covered lump without asking for help.

He prods the lump with one finger. "Do you require medical attention?"

[boston_bruiser]

OH GOD NOT THE PRODDING.

"No," Voodoo rasps, curling tighter into a ball and shutting his eyes even harder. "What I require's a fuckin' bullet in my skull."

[knightoflight]

"I...uh..I'm not sure how that would help?"

But he does stop poking.

[boston_bruiser]

Here, Wing, have a Look.

"It'd get rid of this fuckin' headache."

[knightoflight]

The Look would probably be more daunting if the human didn't look so...sick.

"Surely there's something less final you could try?"

[boston_bruiser]

Dammit, hyperbole's greatest nemesis. Logic.

Voodoo grumbles and presses his knees to his chest. "Tried fuckin' pain pills, Sherlock," he grumbles, motioning to the empty blister pack.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

There are footfalls nearby, and then somebody sits down at the next available couch.

Thankfully, it is not somebody who would flick spitballs or play music at any kind of volume.

[boston_bruiser]

It takes Voodoo a while to notice her, on account of the fact that his head feels like it's going to implode with the force of a couple dozen Fat Mans, but eventually he does.

"Hey."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"Hey," Ellen says in reply. "Bad morning?"

Stupid question, but if he's grumpy at her he's less likely to be thinking about how much his head probably hurts.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo moves his head back and forth in a vaguely nodding motion.

"Shitty morning."







"I'm sorry. For what I did."

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

"You said that already," says Ellen, "last night. Just... as long as I don't have to be there for that again, it's all right."

The sooner that's out of the way, she figures, the better.

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo nods.

"You won't be. I promise."

[starrydome]

That looks about as bad as could be expected.

There's a presence next to him, then it is gone. Returning a little while later with a mug of - something. It steams and it smells - green for lack of a better word.

"Here. Drink this."

You can't be curled up that tightly and not be awake.

And elves do not know about ear plugs.

[boston_bruiser]

Luckily for Elrond, they're not that effective.

Voodoo opens his eyes a titch, looks at Elrond, then the cup, then, with the faintest of shrugs, leans up, takes the cup, and starts drinking it one sip at a time, pausing for a bit after the first few sips.

"What's this?"

[starrydome]

"It's a herbal brew that will help replenish your body and tone your liver," Elrond replies, considerately pitching his voice low.

"It normally seems to work. On Mortals."

[boston_bruiser]

Well, it's no miracle cure, but by God it works. Even now Voodoo looks a little better, sits up a little straighter. Even if it doesn't taste the best.

"Thanks, man," he rasps. "Elrond the half-elf, right?

[starrydome]

He's lucky it isn't one of the really vile ones. There's even mint in it, mainly to make the flavor less - well.

Elrond smiles. "Elrond Half-elven, yes. Or Elrond Eärandilion, Elrond of Imladris - " Another smile. "And you are called Voodoo, when people are not calling you less flattering things."

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo smirks. "Yeah. That's me, alright."

"I'm not always that drunk. Or this hungover."

Just in case Elrond was wondering.