Gator
I rolled over, stretching as I opened my eyes to find Donut curled up next to me, hugging an empty bottle of Hell’s Breath, a whiskey so potent it should come with a hazmat suit, as he sucked his thumb in his sleep. Thirty-five years old, this guy. Thirty-five and still thumb-sucking his way through a hangover. The sheer audacity of it all was almost impressive.
Rolling my eyes at the grown-ass man-child, I sat up and moaned, my voice a gravelly whisper. “Well, at least you got your skivvies on this time,” I muttered, the words somehow sounding both weary and impressed.
Last time, it had involved a strategically positioned throw pillow and a well-placed hand.
Don’t ask.
Seriously, don’t.
Rubbing my hands down my face, I surveyed the battlefield—er, the room.
Empty whiskey bottles littered the floor like fallen soldiers after a particularly vicious whiskey-fueled war. My brothers, in various states of inebriation and undress, were sprawled across the furniture like casualties of a boozy game of twister.
Thore, bless his artistic soul, had somehow managed to drape himself over a taxidermied raccoon, creating a bizarre tableau that could only be described as “rustic nightmare.” Braveheart, bless his simple heart, was snoring with his mouth open, a half-eaten bowl of chili precariously balanced on his chest—a culinary feat rivaling any Olympic gymnast. Worm, theperpetually unlucky one, was hogtied to a bar stool with the word “Nerd” written on his forehead in what looked suspiciously like lipstick (Juju no doubt).
And Juju? Well, that crazy sonofabitch was asleep naked as the day he was born, with an itty-bitty hand towel strategically and hilariously inadequately covering his erect Johnson.
“Guys,” I said, my voice echoing in the strangely silent aftermath of the previous night’s chaos. “Anyone want to explain the raccoon situation?”
Silence.
Then, a muffled groan from Braveheart, followed by the chili bowl tipping precariously before finally tumbling to the floor with a satisfying splat. “Nope,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and chili. “Not my problem.”
Donut, stirred by the chili incident, let out a loud, hiccupping sob, clutching his empty whiskey bottle tighter like a security blankie. “My thumb... hurts,” he mumbled, his voice a slurry of whiskey and self-pity.
“Your thumb?” I replied, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. “Dude, you’re thirty-five. You should be able to handle a hangover without resorting to childhood comfort objects.”
“It’s therapeutic,” he mumbled, eyes still closed, thumb still sucking.
“Therapeutic? You’re a grown-ass man cuddling an empty bottle of whiskey while sucking your thumb!”
“It’s... a coping mechanism,” he grumpily insisted, before rolling over and snoring again.
Getting to my feet, I stretched, yawning loudly as I scratched my stomach. Needing coffee and possibly therapy, I stumbled my way to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door—what was the point? It wasn’t like any of my brothers hadn’t seen my dick before.
Leaning against the wall, I dug out my prized possession and pointed it at the toilet as I stared out at the bright sunshine encompassing Rosewood, Virginia, and I wondered if I should stage an intervention or just start a reality TV show.
The ratings would be off the charts.
As I finished my business and flushed, I heard a loud crash from the other room, followed by a string of creative curses. “What in the holy hangover hell was that?” I yelled, already knowing the answer.
“I... may have knocked over the raccoon,” Thore’s voice called back, sheepishness dripping from his words. “Sorry, little buddy. My bad.”
I rolled my eyes again, a familiar feeling when dealing with my eccentric brothers.
As I stepped out of the bathroom, I noticed Juju had managed to find a pair of tighty-whities, which were stretched to their limits, and was attempting to make coffee. His naked ambition was on full display. Braveheart was still snoring, a string of chili connecting his face to the empty bowl, and Worm was rubbing his wrists, looking like he’d had one too many run-ins with Lady Luck. Donut, my dear, sweet, man-child of a brother, was sitting up, thumb in his mouth, looking like a lost puppy.
I shook my head, knowing that despite the chaos, I loved these idiots.
“Alright, boys, let’s get this hangover show on the road,” I ordered as someone unlocked the door and walked in.
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!”
“Laissez les bon temps rouler, Doc!” I happily greeted, arms wide as the good doctor walked into the room along with a familiar face I hadn’t seen in a long time.
“Ooh-ee, Gator.” Romeo smiled as he stepped into the room, grinning like a po-boy knee deep in collard greens.
