Reality seeped in, causing his head to hurt. Drop by drop as his eyes hinged open tiredly, light filtered in, and the colorfulness of his sleep was forgotten. He moaned, still feeling her beside him. He could still smell the roses on her skin, still taste the sweetness of her pink lips, still feel her breath like feathers on his scorching body. He moaned, his eyes shutting again for a brief second as he recalled this fantasy that had felt so real, he had nearly imploded. His pent up emotions faded into his surroundings in a soft sigh. It was just a dream.
She sat on the windowsill, a sick feeling in her stomach as she watched him awaken in all of his naïve glory. She hadn't slept at all that night; she couldn't sleep. She couldn't think of anything but Scott. It frustrated her so to realize that no matter how much he hurt her, love would keep her waiting for him when he decided to come around. She touched her cheek and the tears trickled over her fingers, staining the sleeve of her blouse.
Roses wafted in the air and he breathed them in, his eyes opening to a ceiling that was not familiar like his own. The texture of the paint was different... subtly so, but he knew his personal abode. He knew himself. And at that moment, he knew her.
The realization that the swirling of color and feelings and singeing emotions had actually occurred sank in to his skin. Dave felt sick.
* * *
"Mmmmm..." Bob hummed, stretching his arms sideways and smacking Timber in the process.
"Hey man..." she mumbled, pulling his duvet up to her ears.
Her back was to him and at that moment, she was a lump under the black blanket, with a mop of dark hair sticking up onto his pillow. Bob was asleep on his stomach, one arm slung over her waist under the covers and the other hanging off the other side of the bed. "Damn..." he moaned. "I have the biggest boner."
"Thanks Bob." Timber said, rolling over onto her back and looking at him through sleepy eyes. "I really needed to know that."
"Morning Glory." Bob grinned cutely.
"Well at least you didn't say it was a good morning." She commented. "You kicked me like fifty times last night. Be-yatch."
Bob grinned at her for a moment, his smirk mischievous. "Morning breath bomb!!!" he suddenly exclaimed, leaning over her and breathing hard into her face.
Timber squeezed her eyes shut in disgust. "Eeeew Bob. Your breath smells like... Peach Schnapps poured over steaming garbage." she complained as he lay back down smiling. She paused for a moment, smacking her lips together and trying to get a taste of her own mouth. She wrinkled her nose in utter disgust. "SICK! Mine does too!"
Bob chuckled good-naturedly. "Hey, I gotta joke for ya."
"Yay! Joke in the morning!" Timber giggled, her mood shifting drastically as she rolled completely onto her other side to face him.
Bob moved his arm from her and lay on his side with his hands tucked under his cheek on the pillow. "Okay... so there was this frog."
"Was his name Jeremiah?" Timber asked interestedly.
Bob looked at her plainly. "No."
"Oh. Then the joke will suck. But go ahead."
"So anyways, there was this frog and he decided he wanted to take some time off of work, maybe get a yacht... you know, spend some time with himself." Bob kept eye contact with Timber as he spoke. "So he hopped into the bank one morning, hopping up to the first available teller and smiling pleasantly. The woman behind the glass looked up and smiled. Her nametag read 'Patricia Wack.' The frog goes, 'Hello Miss Wack. I'd like to take out a loan.' So Miss Wack nods and asks him how much he'll need. The frog thinks for a moment, and he figures that with the cost of the boat and all that he will need during his hiatus, he'll need quite a bit, so he finally says, 'Hmmm, maybe about half a million... but I know the manager, so it should be okay. Just tell him that Kermit Jagger is here.' Miss Wack nods again, kinda reluctant, but finally says, 'Okay... I suppose. Do you have any form of collateral?' 'Of course,' says the frog, reaching under the counter and presenting a small, grey, ceramic elephant. 'What's that?' Miss Wack asks, confused. 'Collateral.' The frog says. 'Ummm... okay...' Miss Wack says slowly. "Maybe I should go talk to the manager.' So she goes back to the managers office and says, 'You won't believe this, but there's a frog out there named Kermit Jagger who's requesting a loan of half a million dollars... and he gave me this as collateral.' She sets the elephant in front of her manager on his desk. 'I mean, what is this anyways?' Miss Wack asks, kinda laughing to herself. The manager looks at her with a very serious expression on his face and says, 'It's a knick-knack Patty Wack, give the frog a loan. He's the son of a Rolling Stone.'"
Timber started to giggle, removing her hands from under the duvet and clapping them together. "That was by far the corniest joke I've heard since last week." she laughed. "But it was cute." She chortled.
Bob grinned, twisting back onto his stomach. "I'm such a good story teller." He said arrogantly. "But my penis really hurts." He informed her. "Morning erections suck man. They cramp, and stretch, and I've probably had this one for like four hours judging by the way it hurts like a bitch.
Timber raised the covers on her side, pretending to peek at him. "I don't know if that's too much information or what." She commented.
"My mouth feels like cotton." Bob stated. "My teeth are sore. I think I have a hangover. My head kinda hurts-- man I gotta beat off, I'm in some major pain here." He complained. "I'm going to go beat off." He announced. "Okay?"
Timber looked at him, shaking her head slightly. "What... do you want me to guard the bathroom door or something?" she asked, not seeing why he continuously informed her that he had an erection.
Bob grinned. "Naw, that's okay, I got it. I'll be back in like... a few minutes."
"Knock yourself out." Timber responded, curling up into a tight ball after rolling onto her other side with her back to him.
The next thing she could remember was Bob jouncing the mattress as he climbed back into bed. She began to drift away from reality again, falling back asleep when he spoke.
"You know... we were SO drunk last night." He commented. "I barely remember anything."
Timber partially turned onto her back to look at him. He lay towards her, his bottom arm bent under his head on the pillow while his other elbow stabbed into the air as he scratched his head. He seemed pensive, still possessing a soft morning glow, his hair in knots. She had to smile at his almost cherubic appearance.
Timber couldn't keep the smile from spreading creamily over her lips. "I remember what happened." She chuckled proudly. "You kissed Scott. Two times."
Bob's eyes, previously on the ceiling, flicked to her face with blatant horror. "What?!" he demanded, wrinkling his nose and sneering his lips with distaste.
Timber paused, feeling merciful and sparing him. "Nevermind." She said, shaking her head. "Are we going to get up? Do you want to hang out today?" she began to talk, an event that, once triggered, could not be stopped.
"We hang out everyday, Timber." Bob informed her coolly, returning his eyes to the ceiling and sighing a sigh that soon stretched into a yawn. "I mean, you live here, I live at your house. It's just the way shit works." He explained more to himself that to her.
Someone knocked on the outside of Bob's closed bedroom door and he lazily rolled his eyes. "Come on in and join the fun!" he announced, granting them entry.
The door crept open and Sheila showed herself, a large laundry basket in her arms. "Afternoon kiddies." She smiled pleasantly. "Glad to see you awake at this fine hour." She added pointedly.
Bob groaned, yawning again. "What time is it?" he asked, rolling onto his side and checking the alarm clock on his bedside table. After studying the digital device, he laid back down, moving closer to Timber and closing his eyes.
"What time is it?" Timber asked, realizing he was not aiming to share his results with her.
"Almost three o'clock." Bob replied, not opening his eyes.
"There were a bunch of clothes in this basket in the laundry room, and I immediately figured whose bedroom they were from." Sheila smiled. "Band tee-shirts, BVD's, days of the week underpants, and a teddy bear." She announced, setting the basket on the foot of the bed.
Timber pushed Bob's arm off of her, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "BVD's? That's me!" she exclaimed.
Sheila smiled despite herself. "Yes, my surrogate daughter, they are." She responded.
"The teddy bear is mine." Bob grinned, still lying still with his eyes closed.
"Thanks Sheila." Timber smiled. "I knew something was up when I didn't have any underwear to wear yesterday." She grinned, looking into the white plastic basket.
"Are you going commando?" Bob asked with a smirk, finally exposing his bright brown eyes to the world with interest. "Better not let Clint get a hold of those boxers man. He'd do some pretty disgusting things to them."
"Eeeew!!!!" Timber whined, shaking her head and shuddering.
"Oh stop it Bob." Sheila scolded, chuckling as she folded the contents of the basket.
"Hey, wait..." Bob said, sitting up beside his friend. "How did you know the band tee-shirts were mine?" he asked. "Clint and Scott have a ton of band tee-shirts. So does Dave. In fact, most of the band tee-shirts we own are public property." He pointed out, steepling his knees under the duvet and wrapping his arms around his bent legs. He perked an eyebrow at his stepmother.
"Well, actually, I usually think of it this way." Sheila began, folding a pair of teeny white panties with the word Tuesday printed in green bubble letters all over them. "You guys share them, so when I take the liberty to fold clothes, it doesn't matter where I put them." She explained. "Though it is a source of many arguments... so don't tell your father that I'm the culprit." She added with a smile.
Bob just grinned, running his fingers back through his hair. "My head hurts!" he whined. "Sheila!!! My head hurts!"
Timber chose not to comment, helping Mrs. Moffatt fold.
"I'm sorry honey." Sheila responded nonchalantly.
"Make it sto-op!" Bob whined.
"How about this," Sheila began, continuing her individual piles of clothing. "I'll make a late breakfast. Dave just got home from the Steiners' and Scott's been asleep in the basement all morning anyway... so none of you guys have eaten. In fact, you can even choose what I should make." She suggested, attempting to ameliorate his unhappy bearing.
Bob hung his head, squeezing it from the temples with both hands. "It doesn't matter." He whimpered in agony.
Sheila looked to Timber. "Okay, then you choose." She suggested.
Timber half shrugged. "I'm not even that hungry. My stomach hurts." She responded.
Sheila just grinned. "Waffles and scrambled eggs it is." She announced as if one of the two teens had proposed such a dish. "Be down in forty-five." She added, leaving the rest of the basket alone and heading towards the door.
* * *
Timber and Bob were racing into the kitchen within twenty minutes, bombarding Sheila as each fought to bid her a good morning first. The petit woman chuckled, and greeted them for the second time that day.
Timber was fresh from the shower, her blown-dry hair pulled back into its usual twist. She was wearing a pair of Bob's khaki cargo shorts and a navy blue Polo shirt. The shorts hung low on her hips, equipped not only with a fly, but drawstring as well that served the purpose of keeping them on her body. They stretched to just below her knees, rugged with style and wear. A pair of white bobby socks completed the outfit.
Bob was clad in khaki cargo shorts as well, but with a white Beck tee-shirt on top. His hair was still damp from his shower, tucked behind his ears. His morning shower had really helped his head, but he downed two Advil from the medicine drawer under the counter by the side door anyhow.
"Mmmmm, smells good." The middle triplet announced, patting Sheila on the shoulder. "Where's everyone else?" he asked.
Sheila didn't look up from the eggs she was scrambling on the stove. "Dave's in his room, Scott's in the basement, I just woke Clint, and your father is in the living room. He and I are going to go see one of his friends whose wife just had another baby."
"Ooooh, party time." Bob snickered.
Sheila glanced back at him. "No, I don't think so. By the way, can you explain what happened to four of my lipsticks, and why there were liquor bottles empty in the living room?" she asked. "Or do I even need to ask."
Bob quickly looked at Timber. "Well, gotta run." He announced, tugging Timber's arm and scurrying towards the basement door.
* * *
Thudding down the steps to the basement, Bob spotted Scott, lying on his back on the big leather couch. He cringed, knowing his older brother had a hangover and was going to be in a toxic mood.
"Hey Scott..." he said cautiously, stepping forth into the sitting area with Timber close behind.
Scott smiled lightly, turning to stare up at Bob through unfocused eyes. "Bobbino... Bobster... Bobbert..." he muttered, bursting into chuckles. "Bobbert! I have FOUND the cure for hangover! Give me the Nobel Peace Prize! I have found it!" he announced, struggling to sit up but thudding back into a supine position.
Bob creased his brow. "Umm... Scott? Are you... okay?" he asked carefully, not progressing any further into the room.
"See, if you wanna... wanna not be drunk... all you haveta do... is not stop drinking!" he chuckled, finally defeating his lack of balance and sitting up, holding on to the back of the couch. He raised his left hand up to show the small bottle of liqueur to his lips and downing a mouthful.
Bob heaved an annoyed sigh. "Shit, Scott, Dad's gonna flip! How much have you drank?" he demanded, rushing to his brother's side and attempting to remedy the situation. He smoothed Scott's hair back from his face, feeling the dampness of his overheated forehead. "Have you been drinking since last night? You're gonna catch it when Dad sees you. Come on, gimme the bottle."
"Well see, what had happened was..." Scott started, his eyes roaming but intense as he tried very hard to focus, squinting blankly across the room. "I paced myself man, it's about the pacin'. I had a drink at two o'clock... went ta sleep... one at four o'clock... went ta sleep, one at five... went ta sleep, one at six... went ta sleep... one at seven o'clock... went ta sleep... and one at eight... went to sleep... then I got up and nine and... had som'ore. I had a drink e'ry hour. Just e'ry hour. I gave myself my very own owny own alcohol patch."
"Every hour?" Timber asked, running through the pedestrian computations in her head, still standing in the doorway. "Then what happened between two and four o'clock?"
Scott looked slowly to her, noticing how her face danced around in a garbled image. "Two and Four? No drink. I did NOT have a drink at two-thirty."
Timber shook her head slightly, wondering why she was trying to reason with a drunken person. "I meant at three o'clock." She corrected him.
Scott looked confused, ignoring Bob who pried the bottle of Jaggermeister out of his hands. "Tree o'clock?" he asked.
"Three o'clock Scott... Three. The number between two and four." Timber explained, wishing she hadn't gotten in the conversation in the first place.
Scott threw his head back, sending him back onto the couch. "Three!!!" he cried, guffawing unnecessarily loud. "There's not such thing as three! HAHAHAHAHA!!! See! Now I'm no longer the stupidest person in the room!"
Timber furrowed a brow in disgust. "Yes you are."
Scott pulled himself back up on the back of the couch. "And you..." he pointed loosely at her. "Just proved me wrong. 'Cause it's 'yes you is.'"
Timber looked at Bob then back to Scott and chose not to say anything.
"Man, you really are dumber than you look." Bob muttered. "Just... lay down for a while and get sober."
"Man, just... get outta my grill!" Scott snapped, smacking Bob's hands off his shoulder. "Stay out of my business! I'm fiiiiiiiiinnnnneeee!!!"
"You're drunk as hell... I don't ever think I've seen you this drunk." Timber rationalized. "Well, maybe I have, but you weren't as jovial as you seem to be now. At least you were cooperative! Now you're just---"
"Timber," Bob cut her off. "You're not helping."
"It's all gravy baby..." Scott slurred, released the back of the couch and tumbling backwards onto Bob.
The look on his face resembled that of Patti after taking one of her occasional spills over something or another; the look she acquired as she tried to perceive what had just happened, the look she got just before she either cried or broke into giggles. Scott broke into giggles.
"EARTHQUAKE!!!" he shouted obnoxiously, flailing his hands into Bob's face. "AHHHHHH!!!"
Bob hushed his brother, wrapping his arms around Scott's chest under his arms and tugging him backwards so he flopped fully off the couch.
"AHHHHHH!!!!" Scott shouted again. "AHHHHHHH!!!" he continued laughing.
Timber too giggled as she watched the display from the doorway. "You are such a little puke Scott. Man, I'm rollin.'" She chuckled.
Scott sputtered another chuckled. "WOO HOO!!!!" he shouted.
"Shut the fuck up man, fuck up shut the." Bob said firmly, Scott's head on his lap. "I'm not kidding. I'm only trying to save your insubordinate ass."
"Assssssss-pecially when I'm drunk!" Scott cried. "Man..." he moaned, his mood changing. "My head hurts."
"That's because you're drunk as hell." Timber informed him.
Scott was silent, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. The fuzziness parted, allowing him a small view of reality. That was about the time that his nausea kicked in.
"Oh GOD!!! FUCK!!!" Bob exclaimed as Scott vomited all over his lap.
"Gross!" Timber laughed, covering her eyes and turning away.
Scott sputtered breath, lying on his side with his head on Bob's thighs, his own vomit coating his cheek.
"SHIT! A little help here?" Bob said pointedly to Timber.
"He's not my brother." Timber snickered.
"Timber..."
"You know I'm going to help you..." she sighed, finally entered the room and going to the other side of the sofa. She grabbed Scott's hands and tugged forward, dragging him into a sitting position while Bob squirmed from under him.
"Gross!" Bob muttered irately, allowing the chunks in Scott's regurgitation to fall with a splat off his shorts.
Scott silently lost consciousness for spurting periods of time, moaning quietly.
"How're you gonna change out of those?" Timber asked.
Bob wrinkled his nose, heading for the bathroom and walking with his legs parted unnaturally. Timber released Scott's hands and he fell onto his back, not stirring. She got to her feet and hurried after her best friend.
"Here... take those off..." she directed, starting at the tie of her shorts. "You can wear mine and I'll wear your boxers."
"Thanks." Bob said, carefully untying his shorts and letting them fall to the floor, heavy with Scott's vomit.
Timber dropped trou as well, passing him the shorts and standing in a pair of 'Wednesday' underwear.
"Dude... it's not Wednesday." Bob informed her, glancing at her panties and grinning.
"I know." Timber said sheepishly.
Bob turned his back on her and pulled his boxer shorts down. She turned away politely, feeling her face heat up as she admitted to herself that she had caught a view of his ass.
"Ummm... here." Bob said slowly, in the awkwardness of the moment, handing her his white-and-blue-checkered boxers.
She reached her hand behind her back and accepted them. They were still warm from his body as the cotton slid against her legs.
"Now, someone has to clean that up." Bob announced, turning back to her as he buttoned the fly of his shorts and left the drawstring alone.
Timber rolled the waist of his boxers. "Not I says the cat." She quoted.
"Not I says the duck." Bob added, washing his hands in the sink.
"Damnit." Timber grinned. "Now none of us get Chicken Little's pie."
Bob snickered at her allusion, drying his hand on a towel by the sink.
The basement bathroom was very elegant, but sullied with beer posters and a bong hidden in the top drawer. Though Sheila had decorated it with the utmost care, the boys had transformed it into their own domain.
"We should just leave him." Timber smiled conniving.
"Wait until Dad finds out." Bob sighed, shaking his head.
* * *
"Okay... one step at a time." Bob whispered in Scott's ear, holding him around the waist and trying to guide him upstairs. "Timber, go ahead and see what's going on in the kitchen." He whispered.
Timber nodded and climbed the steps ahead, creaking the door open at the top and peeking beyond. She immediately stepped back, silently shutting the door. "They're all at the table! Shit!" she hissed.
"Shit." Bob agreed, trying to think.
"Are we there yet?" Scott slurred lazily, leaning heavily on Bob.
Timber and Bob had quickly semi-fixed the situation. Scott was now clad in a fresh, black, D.A.R.E. tee-shirt, one of Clint's favorite white bucket hats, and a pair of Clint's dark, aviator sunglasses. Little did the two know that Scott had also slipped the small flask of Jaggermeister into the cargo pocket of his shorts.
"Shhh, upsie daisy." Bob sang pleasantly, standing behind Scott and pushing him gently towards the top of the stairs. "Remember what we talked about Scott. Just act sober. Try not to talk too much. Do what I do. Just follow whatever I do and whatever Timber does... okay?"
"Yes'm." Scott grunted, chortling quietly and covering his mouth with both hands.
Timber took a deep breath and opened the door at the top of the stairs, walking out into the kitchen. "Morning everyone."
"Afternoon." Frank corrected, smiling as he read the newspaper. "How are you Timber?" he asked.
"Pretty good... how are you?" she countered, thinking to distract him while Scott staggered into the room, Bob holding a fistful of his tee-shirt in back to guide him to his chair.
"I'm pretty alright." Frank nodded. "How are your parents?" he asked. "I saw your father yesterday at the grocery store with your older brother. How old is your brother? He's tall."
"Chandler's home?" Timber asked in blatant surprise. "Wow... I haven't been home for like a week." She smirked. "He's twenty-one." She replied. "I didn't know he was coming back this summer. Wow... I should really check in on the homefront." She said as an afterthought, sliding into a chair.
Frank chuckled. "This is your home away from home." He smiled, folding his newspaper as he prepared to eat. "You know you're welcome to stay here whenever and for as long as you like."
Timber smiled. "Thank you. You guys are like the parents I never had." She stated controversially.
Frank exchanged a look with Sheila and chuckled. "Thank you... I think." He responded.
Clint ambled into the room. "Something smells good." He informed the others.
He was apparently very hung over, clad in a pair of grey sweats from Roots, and a black Roots tee-shirt. His steps were shuffling and he squinted his eyes against the harsh light that hurt his head when taken in large doses.
Dave was already at the table and was completely silent, not daring to look in Scott's direction as guilt gripped him around the neck.
Sheila brought a large plate of scrambled eggs to the table, serving herself and sitting in her usual seat beside her husband. Dave scooped a few spoonfuls into his own plate and helped himself to a waffle, only for the sake of appearing busy in order to avoid social contact with his family. Bob quickly served himself, then Scott, then Clint, so he didn't appear too obvious with aiding his eldest brother.
"What's with the hat and glasses Scott?" Frank asked, grinning as he took a bite of the fluffy, yellow eggs.
Bob looked at Timber beside him with a panicked expression on his face. She glanced at him too as she spooned a very small pile of eggs onto her plate.
"I'm just too coooooool." Scott said mildy, holding his fork with his left hand as he tried to take a bite of eggs. The clump of yellow fell off the opposite side of his fork before making it into his mouth. "Oh damnit." Scott muttered. "Behave yourselves!" he hissed at his plate, stabbing into another clot of egg.
Bob smiled sheepishly, kicking Scott under the table. "Other hand." He whispered discreetly.
"Ahhhh..." Scott nodded, discovering that the other hand did indeed do the trick.
"What's wrong with you Scott?" Frank asked suspiciously.
Scott looked up and smiled. "Nothing." He replied calmly.
Dave continued to eat with his head lowered to his plate, not wanting to make eye contact, lest his family see the sin he had committed. He was trying his hardest to just forget the night before, but the more he tried, the more he thought about it.
Clint picked at a waffle with his hands, dipping each piece into a puddle of syrup on his plate and putting it into his mouth. He chewed very slowly, everything seeming to be a huge feat when he felt like going back to bed. Sheila had gotten up and was pouring orange juice for everyone, setting the jug on the table.
"Is that all your eating honey?" she asked Timber who was intently using her knife and fork to saw her scrambled eggs into tiny pieces and pushing them into deliberate piles on her plate. Sheila found this behavior incredibly bizarre.
Timber looked up with guilt on her face. "Oh... I'm not too hungry. My tummy hurts."
"Tummy." Scott snorted, continuing to methodically eat his eggs, stabbing the tines of the fork into his cheek on several occasions as he missed his mouth.
Bob smacked Scott's thigh, continuing to eat his waffles.
"I'm sorry you have a stomach-ache Timber, do you want something for it? We have Tums." Sheila continued, her motherly instinct kicking in.
"Oh, no thanks. I should be fine with a little juice or something." Timber responded, putting her glass to her lips and sipping very little between her lips. She smiled at Sheila who watched her every move.
Scott scanned the table to see that everyone was occupied with their own affairs. He smiled to himself in a dazed calm, taking the small bottle of Jaggermeister from his pocket and unscrewing the bottle on his lap. He quickly raised the flask-shaped bottle over the tabletop and poured a generous amount into his orange juice glass, concealing the bottle once more in his lap. Screwing back on the cap, he returned it to his pocket and snickered as if nothing had happened. He downed his orange juice in a chug and served himself more eggs.
"Are you sure you're stomach's okay Timber?" Sheila persisted. "Maybe you should eat something to settle it. Some crackers? Maybe a banana?" she suggested.
"It's okay. I'll be okay." Timber insisted.
"Are you sure?" Sheila asked.
"Yeah... I'm sure. Thanks... you always make me feel special." Timber smiled.
"Awww, honey..." Sheila cooed emotionally.
"See Timber, now you've started her up." Clint scolded, still working on his waffle. "All that daughter talk... I better not see any babies around here and I'm frickin serious."
"Clint!" Frank exclaimed in disbelief, shocked at the how bilious his son was behaving, but chuckling for the same reason.
Scott's bottle of Jaggermeister appeared once more as he prepared his third glass of orange juice. He then fixed himself a third helping of eggs, eating them very quickly.
"What did you and Ben do all night Dave?" Frank asked, for the sake of conversation.
Dave looked up with guilt written all over his face. "Umm... we just hung out." He replied.
"They hung out." Scott snickered.
Dave lowered his eyes once more. "I... gotta go." He said, getting up and taking his plate to the sink.
"He's gotta go." Scott mimicked.
"Shut up Scott." Bob whispered.
"Shut up Scott." Scott snickered.
"What'd gotten into you Scott?" Frank asked.
"What's gotten in to you Scott?"
"Cut that the hell out man!" Clint barked irritably.
"Cut that the hell out man."
"Stop! It's annoying!"
"Stop, it's annoying."
"That's enough boys." Frank warned.
"That's enough boys." Scott was chuckling.
Timber bit her lip to keep laughter at bay.
"Shut the hell up Scott!" Clint exclaimed, regretting so as his ears rang and his head began to pound at the sound of his own voice.
Scott held his glass to his lips and a steady fountain of creamy yellow vomit flowed from between his lips.
"SICK!" Clint jumped up from the table. "That's disgusting!"
"Clint's livid." Timber announced, explaining the moments transpirations for anyone who was not aware.
"Well that looks nice the second time around." Scott stated casually, tipping his glass slightly in slow motion to see its contents.
"Scott! What's the matter with you?" Frank demanded.
"Nothing!" Scott shouted, starting to stand up and knocking the glass of vomit over onto the table. He attempted to stagger for the door, but somehow ended up with his cheek to the floor. "FUCK!!! It's e'rywhere I's go! The floor is STALKING me!" he cried out.
Bob's eyes widened in horror as steam appeared to blow out of Frank's ears and nostrils.
* * *