Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part two

Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part two
-A Mid-morning Tale of a Hungover and Still Hungry Degenerate
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Your alarm wakes you up at ten a.m. It's been just over two hours since you and Wal-Mart girl fell asleep on your bed, your Spongebob blanket is still slightly moist from the sweat of your coke-fueled sex and smells like a combination of bodily fluids and cheap whiskey. Why the hell did she set the alarm you wonder, as you lie there listening to the shrill beeping that seems to be piercing your brain and causes your head to throb dully with that familiar pain that comes from a night of excessive debauchery. It had to be her, you haven't set the alarm since you were fired from your last job three months ago.
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After fleeing into the night together, the two of you jumping into your car and speeding away so fast you would have made the Duke boys of Hazzard County proud, you drove to a deserted construction site and snorted some of her blow off the dusty dashboard of your Caprice Classic. You laugh hysterically about how you punched out the stock boy, and the getaway you had just made, talking loudly to be heard over the classic rock station blaring out of the radio, neither of you even for a moment considering turning it down.
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She offered to take you up on your request to buy breakfast but thanks to the cocaine you were flying high, and no longer hungry, so you stopped at an all night gas station where she ran in and grabbed a case of beer. It was after two and not yet six but the bored looking cashier just wanted to get back to his copy of Rolling Stone and sold her the beer without batting an eye. You were half afraid she'd try and steal something and force you to beat another hasty retreat, but apparently she'd had enough of that for one night.
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You went to your apartment, cracked open a couple of cold PBR's and she cut up the rest of her stash into lines on your coffee table after first wiping up some of the ashes and marijuana particles that liberally covered the table's surface area with a fast food napkin she pulled from the depths of her shoplifting coat.
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You got high together, and took turns playing Youtube songs for each other on your laptop until she finally said, "Are we gonna fuck or what?" So you fucked, and over the course of the next couple hours you fucked several more times, until the coke was long gone and you both started coming down, exhausted from all the physical exertion.
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And now here you both are, lying in this filthy bed together, you with a raging hangover made infinitely worse by the high-pitched, Banshee like beep-beep of that goddamned alarm, while she sleeps on, oblivious... Fuck That.
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"Hey, wake up!" you elbow her sharply in the side and she barely stirs. "Hey!" you yell louder, shaking her by the shoulders. "What?" she mumbles sleepily. Her morning breath is atrocious, which should come as no surprise considering the filthy things she did with her mouth just a few short hours ago. "Why the fuck did you set my alarm clock?" you ask, making no attempt to disguise your irritation. "Oh shit, I gotta go to work!" she says, and immediately gets out of bed and begins hunting for her clothes, which are strewn out all over the bedroom. Moving quickly, she's dressed in no time. "It's been fun." she says, and without another word she's out the door and gone, leaving the alarm to continue it's battle cry on the nightstand.
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You can stand it no longer, you reach across the bed and yank the cord out of the wall, then sling the fucking thing out the bedroom door and into the hallway, where it hits the wall with a resounding crash. At this point you'd like nothing more than to fall back asleep for ten or twelve hours, but you soon realize that's not going to happen.
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Now that you're no longer intoxicated your hunger is back, and it's back with a vengeance. You realize it's been two days since you've last eaten. This poses a problem because you have no food of any kind in the house and it's still three more days until that unemployment check hits your mailbox. Luckily you've been in this predicament before and know just what to do. It's just past ten, so you've got a little less than an hour to make it happen.
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With a groan you drag your carcass out of bed and over to the closet, where you pull out the only thing hanging therein, a pinstriped suit that's seen better days. It's threadbare and could use a good cleaning but should be more more than adequate for the task at hand.
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You dress as quickly as you can, which in your condition (Dead Dogshit) is just slightly faster than a snail's pace. In the car, you pull a clip-on tie out of the glove compartment and put it on before starting the engine and driving away.
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By the time you pull into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and park, it's a quarter to eleven. You're pushing it, but should have just enough time. You walk into the lobby, past the front desk, and into the dining area, where you grab two styrofoam plates and load them up with the hotel's free breakfast. Sweet rolls, fruit, cereal, sausage patties, a waffle, the whole works. You set these down at a table in the corner then make two more trips for beverages, three cups of coffee and two cartons of orange juice.
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Twenty minutes later, your ravenous hunger thoroughly satisfied, you're feeling a million times better. Still not quite human perhaps, but much, much better. You're debating on whether or not you have room for one more cinnamon roll and fantasizing about a threesome with Wal-Mart girl and the hotel maid wiping down tables across from you, when a voice breaks into your reverie. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
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It's the hotel manager, Roger according to his name tag, and he looks anything but happy to see you. "Pardon me?" you ask, trying to play it cool. "You're stealing food, and I'm afraid I simply can not allow that." His voice is so stern you would think you were stealing the food right out of the mouths of his children. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken sir, I'm a guest here." You hope he doesn't ask what room number you're staying in, or worse yet, to see your room key.
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"Bullshit!" he's furious now, face beet red, a vein in his temple throbbing. "I let you get by with it the first few times, but now you come in here looking like a complete derelict, eat enough food to feed a family of four, and eyeball rape one of my maids, who also happens to be my favorite neice! I'm calling the police!"
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You'd forgotten that your face was recently used as a punching bag, while you were getting dressed you hadn't bothered to take a look in a mirror you were too focused on the primary objective of getting some food in your stomach. Also you smell like a rutting pig, and you're sweating booze out of every pore. Ah fuck, here we go again, you think, then make a mad dash for the door.
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He wasn't expecting you to run, and you've got a good lead on him by the time you hit the parking lot. Jumping behind the wheel you can't help but laugh a little at once again finding yourself in this sort of predicament, but the laughter stops real quick. The car won't start.
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TO BE CONTINUED...