Hair of the dog

I woke up this morning in the storehouse next to Buzz, another empty pint of J&B, and a half a can bacon bits scattered on the floor. I brushed them aside and rolled my forehead against the cold concrete, trying not to throw up.

After I gained enough courage to move, I crawled over to one of the storage bins and fished out a pair of the darkest looking sunglasses I could find, then grabbed a bottle of Tylenol and swallowed a few without water. Buzz was up and walking around and the sound of his nails on the concrete pounded in my head like a kickboxer at band camp.

I collapsed back on the floor, and for the next hour or so I kind of did this thing where I’d roll on my back until I got nauseated, then turn over until that made me sick, and then again on my back, etc, etc, etc, until I eventually got the upper hand and was able pull myself up and lean against the storage rack for a while. Once I mastered that, I shuffled over to the door, slapped at the handle, swung it open, and stumbled out into the 24 hour sun.

The cold air felt wonderful, but I resisted the urge to cuddle up next to the nearest snow drift and staggered back to the station. I threw open the door, and surprised a wraith who clung to the wall and howled silently as I passed, and collapsed into my desk chair. Propping my feet up on the desk, I unbuttoned my jacket pocket, pulled out a fresh pint of J&B, and took a long pull. I closed my eyes and inhaled.

I reached for my keyboard, and with one hand slowly typed the commands to resume scanning RA12h42m36.9s,DE-11°19′35″.