Just a little taste of what happens to poor Pinky Anderson:
The pain is horrendous. It feels like someone is sticking ice picks through his eyeballs—from the inside.
“What have I done?” thinks Pinky.
That thought alone starts another wave of pain along the tortuous path of the mother of all hangovers. Pinky Anderson has never experienced this phenomenon known to the majority of alcohol imbibers around the world. Pinky prays for death. A prayer that will not be answered this day.
No, death does not come, but the irritating ring of the phone, does. That sets off another wave of ice pick jabbing behind his eyeballs.
Pinky fumbles with the device on the nightstand. “Uh,” Pinky grunts.
“Sir, this is your ten o’clock wake up call.”
“Uh,” Pinky grunts again and attempts to place the handset in the cradle on the top of the tan, plastic device from where he had retrieved it. Pinky fails. He doesn’t care. The phone might, but it’s not talking.
God, it hurts to open his eyes, so Pinky keeps them closed.
Once again, Pinky prays for death. But, once again, his prayers are not answered.