The Hangover Cure

The alarm tore through his consciousness, blasting him into the land of the living with the overly loud voices of the local sports talk radio morning show. J.C. Hunter swung wildly at the clock radio, striking a glancing blow on the snooze button that was enough to shut it down for another nine minutes.

He sat up dizzy, his head aching, vision fuzzy, mouth dry, fingers tingling, and all over stinking like a drunken pirate.

Thursday night Hunter and his buddies hit the pubs, drinking rum and yo-ho-hoing like the buccaneers they all fancied themselves to be. They talked at length about how they were gonna quit their jobs, leave it all behind, buy a boat and live like pirates until the world died. It was a good dream, and one they often spoke of on a Thursday, or ThARRRsday as Hunter and his droogs called it when they went out for their weekly rum fix.

Hunter stood and nearly fell over. Maybe this morning he would call work and take a “personal” day, he thought and fell back into bed.

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