Busted Axle Road
CopyrightÂ© 1993, 2001, 2010
Mark was sure the short-stack 180 Lycoming on the towplane years ago was running full bore in his head. The light was coming in the window, and he couldn't squint his eyes closed enough to take away the pain. Slowly, a little sense began to pump its way into his hammered brain. He was in a bed, which meant that he had to have gotten back from Commons somehow. His bladder was aching so much he couldn't stand it, and he wasn't sure he could feel his way to the john without opening his eyes. His neck ached, and something felt wrong with his head, and it took a moment or two to realize that he still had the motorcycle helmet on. A little exploration proved that he still had his costume on. A little more exploration with his hand showed that he wasn't in bed alone, when his hand came to rest on what couldn't be anything else but a breast...
A big breast...
A little shocked, he levered one eye open. At least part of the roaring in his head came from the fact that Scarlett O'Hara next to him was snoring so loud that the walls were shaking a little. Her hoop skirt was still on, the hem pointing to the sky like a satellite dish.
Kirsten. Oh, good grief.
If it hadn't been for the bladder pressure, he might not have made much of it, but it aching in his groin had wakened him enough for the shock to penetrate through. He knew he had to do something about it, but what wasn't too clear. Well, one thing was clear, he needed to get some of the pressure from his yellow eyeballs off of his brain.
Somehow, he managed to roll over onto his side, put his legs off the side of the bed, and lever himself upright.
If he'd thought he'd hurt before, the vertical pressure on his bladder and from his eyeballs falling out of their sockets gave him real physical pain. The choice was clear -- either try to get up and find the bathroom, or just let it go. He decided that he'd better try. "Jeez, I must have drunk a lot last night," he thought.
Fortunately, there was a chair next to the bed, and after three tries, he managed to use it to get to his feet, and fortunately, there was a door frame he could hold on to while he tried to get his bearings. "The bathroom has got to be that way," he thought.
The bathroom was, and there, asleep and snoring loudly in the middle of the floor, was the Red Baron. The thought crossed his mind that Jackie had to have tied on a pretty good one, too, but mainly his thoughts were on the toilet. He spent an amazingly long time fumbling for his zipper before he realized that he didn't have one. Finally, he pulled his pants down, just as he couldn't hold it any longer.
"Good thing we're not on the Spearfish Lake sewer," he thought after a while, as the flow kept coming and coming. "I'd overflow the plant."
He wondered where his pants were -- his real pants, not his costume pants, but realized he didn't have it in him to go look for them. He finally pulled the spandex pants back up, stepped back over the still-sleeping Jackie, and stumbled out into the hall.
It was clear that he couldn't come back to the bedroom where he'd been sleeping. Maybe the couch in the living room; no one would be the wiser ... but Mike was sprawled out on it, asleep and snoring like the rest.
Maybe Mike and Kirsten's bedroom then ... it was almost too much complexity for his pounding head to deal with, and it would mean a trip back up the stairs he'd barely made it down without falling.
All of a sudden, the smell of fresh coffee penetrated his addled brain. Apparently, someone had the good sense to have set the timer on the coffeepot before they'd left for the party the night before. With some difficulty, he managed to pour himself a cup. He sat down at the kitchen table and stared into it, his head still pounding.
Some time later, he heard the toilet flush. He looked up, and realized that Mike had managed to make it off the couch and up to the bathroom without his knowing about it. He heard steps coming down the stairs. He looked up and realized that it was Mike.