Boy.
He hit his head hard on the glass coffee table. He lay back down and looked at the high ceiling covered in cob webs, something was poking his back. “Why is it so bright? Morning. Oh God…. Morning.” He fumbled around with his hand and slid a magazine off the beer, Pepsi and sticky-red-stuff stained glass. “Looks like I’m in a church,” he thought. He pitched the magazine like a miniature tent over his face, but the light could still get in as he saw Jessica Alba’s dimly lit jugs. He decided to wriggle his way out from under the table and again knocked his noggin. Cursing silently he stumbled his way through the beer cans, finished liquor and something squishy. He tried to open the bathroom door. It was locked. “Who’s in there? Hurry up!” No answer. Surrendering, he decided that caffeine would help. He flipped the switch on to the two week -old- coffee, Mr. Coffee. A film of chalky green gunk surfaced the stuff. He threw it out. “Watcha doin baby?” He turned around and remembered her: some skank he found at the gig last night. Last night she was Aphrodite to him, today she was... “Shit, at least put some underwear on,” he grumbled. “This shirt is big enough. ‘Sides you were pretty eager to see them go last night,” she cooed. She lit a cigarette using his gas stove. “Don’t smoke here, the landlord told me I can do all the shit I want besides that,” he was in the living room picking up cans and bottles; he threw her jeans at her. Sliding them on she puffed her cigarette again and let a smoky silk screen fill the kitchen. “Stephanie. Stop. Go outside. Better yet. Leave. Now,” he was still trying to be…patient one could say? There was knocking on the door. “My name isn’t Stephanie,” she hissed as still more smoke escaped her nostrils. “Fine. Laura, Emily, Alexia—whatever the fuck your name is. Get out.” She grabbed her purse on the counter and put her stilettos on, one flung on a lamp and the other under the coffee table. “I don’t need an ass like you. Prick. Yeah, you’re a badass. In a band, heavy drinker, but you can’t take a fuckin’ smoke? Fuck off, boy.” There was still knocking. She stormed out of there, and shoved a man out of the way, still sucking her smoking stick. “Hey! No smoking in this building!” The man shouted at her. “Fuck off gramps!” She was gone. He knew who that man was: the landlord. “Listen. I’m sorry about the mess, I’ll give a deposit to have it cleaned,” he begged. “Get out boy,” retorted the old man. “Why?!” I promise that wasn’t me smoking!” he cried. “Get. Out. Leave William,” “My name isn’t William,” he snorted. “Fine. Frank. Ted. Jack--whatever the fuck your name is. Get. Out.” He just stared at the geezer. A week later his apartment was for lease.