By Rory Carmichael
I woke up the next morning feeling like someone had bashed me in the head with a two-by-four. Immediately thereafter, someone bashed me in the head with a two-by-four.
I came to on the davenport in my living room. My head ached like a country song. Some 350-pound gorilla sat in my easy chair, watching a terrible old Karen Jamey movie on the telescreen.
He turned his fat head toward me. "Howaya, Astronaut?" he asked. "Ya' seem a little sore."
"Not nearly as sore as you're gonna be when you get to the end of this movie," I said. "Here's a hint: Jamey dies."
"Thanks for ruining it for me, Astronaut," he sneered. "Now I'm gonna have to ask for a refund."
He turned his attention back to the set. I slowly raised myself up into a sitting position. Pain shot through my head like a fat kid on a water slide. I grabbed a half-empty pack of Palmettos from the coffee table and lit one up. The smoke did nothing to help my headache...
|
