A Shot And A Pinkslip

Deep introspection—hardly Luther’s long suit even on his best of days—was totally out of the question. This morning, he sat on the very edge of his bed, trying to clear enough of the cobwebs to stand. His bladder summoned him from the depths of the most recent alcohol-induced stupor, compelling his efforts to find the toilet. World-class jolts of white-hot energy pole-vaulted through his brain as synapses failed to make sense of signals he sent.

It hurt to think.

At the moment, he wished he would simply go ahead and die, be rid of his earthly burdens… and this goddamn hangover. But he wouldn't, he wasn’t really sick, no matter what his hangover would have him believe. This agony was God's version of a post-game press conference, after Luther’s humiliation at the hands of Mother Teresa Girl’s Academy, having lost by five touchdowns. Luther made a mental note to stop believing in unseen supreme beings, but quickly double-nixed the suggestion, adding the amendment to wait until he'd had a chance to get even in some small way.

Luther Shehee fumbled for his cigarettes, clumsily knocking his keys off the bedside table. The pack was empty, save one bent cylinder— one last chance to momentarily numb the pain. Steadfastly as his condition would allow, he lit the cigarette and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Expressionless, he savored the nicotine, allowing himself to ignore the pang of conscience. Now was not the time to recall his vow to quit smoking.

For the moment, lung cancer seemed less of a threat. A little more than four hours from now, Los Angeles readers would ante up their four bits to read his daily offering of brilliance and he hadn't the slightest inkling of what he’d write about. He flashed upon enough reality to imagine Jewell McCullough, his part-time lover and full-time editor, having her Luther-induced shit-hemorrhage. Under his breath he cursed himself for not spending the night at her place, instead of romancing that quart of Jack Daniels. Hell, she’s a writer, too… she knows what it’s like when the brain gets constipated.  She was losing patience with his drinking and he knew it. There would be hell to pay at the office.