Chapter 28

Consciousness came slowly, on the installment plan, one sensation at a time.

I groaned and opened my eyes to a room full of sunshine. Dancing clusters of sparkles and glowing dust motes drifted in the sunbeams filling my field of vision as I attempted to focus and give the optical center of my brain a chance to sort out the dazzling array of visual information. For several moments I stared at the ceiling and tried to remember where I was. Naked, sirene, and warm in bed with my partner next to me, her exposed bottom pressed against my crotch and her erect nipples pressing into my back.

Wait a minute; it’s physically impossible to be in two places simultaneously. Darlene lay before me with the innocent smile of a sleeping angel.

“Morning, SkyWolf,” the sweet voice of Seraina whispered in my ear.

I turned my head and found myself nose to nose with a smile and a set of laughing eyes. She rapidly kissed my cheek, speed being her defense against morning breath.

My Lord! That woman brought “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed” to an absurd level. No sane person is so chipper in the morning.

“No time, I gotta pee.” I touched my lips against her forehead as I clamored over her on my way to the lavatory.

“Need any help?” she asked as she reached for my genitals.

“No thanks, I’ll handle it.” I brushed her hand away and dashed for the latrine.

Someday I’m going to have to write a book: Zen and the Art of Elimination. I usually mediated when I took a dump. Hey, we’ve got to think of something when we do our business. I figured I might as well use the process of voiding to find enlightenment along with relief.

The morning chill had left the potty seat so cold my balls wanted to climb back inside my body. I squirmed and tried to find a warm spot as shivers ran up my spine and rattled my teeth. What the fuck happened last night? How did I end up naked between those two sexy women? I racked my hung-over mind and stumbled through a misty fog bank of blurry memories filed away in last night’s memory folder.

Exhibits A-D: Four steaming and delicious mugs of hot buttered rum and homemade brandy (a federal offense).

Exhibits E-F: Two contests to determine who could take the most hits from a marijuana-filled hookah in sixty seconds. It became the loser’s task to equal the winner’s toke total. I won the first series and lost the second.

Exhibits G: Seraina and my lady love shuffling a deck of cards and suggesting we relax by playing a round of strip poker.

Then the record fades to gray, too fuzzy to read or remember. I wonder, did I have a good time?

Hangovers are major impediments to thoughtful contemplation. A hangover is also a significant impediment to meditation. Instead of contemplating my navel, I stared at the ceramic tiles between my bare feet and tried not to throw up and tried to make sense out of the fast forty-eight hours. I held my head between my hands and stared at the bathroom flooring between my toes. I was startled to notice the colony’s toilet paper carried designs that matched the natural floral patterns baked into the enamel squares.

In the sport of survivalism, you win if you don’t die. While I was miles away from mastering the tactical details, I had a hunch there were no sections devoted to designer TP in any prepper’s manual. My head hurt thinking about it.

The joy I felt at no longer being Sheila’s “guest-prisoner” quickly faded as the ongoing war in my gut went nuclear. I kinda recall a post-midnight kitchen raid as my girlfriend, Seraina, Starshine, and I foraged for snacks and goodies. Anything to feed a wicked case of the munchies. Kitchen-Karma got its revenge as my stomach bubbled, gurgled, and churned like a science project gone bad. I clamped my jaws shut and fought the urge to hurl.

“Oh my fucking word, this sucks,” I moaned.

I couldn’t think of a worse way to start a day. Foolish me. Diarrhea, the third Rider of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, morning-after style, took its turn next to Nausea in a neck-and-neck run for the finish line first.

As I knelt before the porcelain throne, two fears overcame me. First, I thought I might die. Then, I was fearful I might live. For the next fifteen minutes, I bent double, maybe triple, as I wrung myself out and drained the swamp from both ends.

Memo to self: booze is not your friend.