The sun slices through the crack in the blinds and I hiss like a vampire. My head is thumping like a friggin drum kit and by the bottles, on the floor, I can tell a few things may have happened or not. I plant my feet on the floor looking around. This is definitely not my room and judging by the curvy, bare ass on the other side of the bed I out punted my coverage at the bar last night. By the silk on the bedposts and the bottles on the floor and hell, the coke sprinkled mirror I know last night was one to remember, even though I don't.

I reach over for my pack of cigarettes lighting one trying to push the cobwebs loose from my head. My dance partner moans on the other side of the bed, stretching finally joining the land of the living herself. I take a deep drag and blow it out nice n slow.

There she is! We musta had a helluva ride last night honey buns. We have all the four major food groups here and there. Nudity, BDSM, Drugs, and booze. We sure can throw a shindig.

Vinnie my dear, when I have guests, I hold nothing back. I didn't think you were ever gonna let me out of those silk ties last night. I have to applaud you, good sir. You held up most of the night drunk and high as a kite

Getting my jeans on I laugh and tip my hat in a "You're welcome Ma'am " gesture. I look around for my hat and she points to the dresser with a cracked mirror. I can't find a shirt but do manage to slide my boots on with way too much effort. She offers me the shower with a wink and I graciously decline. I know I have important shit to do for that new wrestling gig I picked up but I will be damned if I remember exactly what. I slide on my shades leaning over the bed I bid the raven-haired girlie adieu, or whatever the germans say instead.

She called me an uber and while I wait some high-class fuckers look at me like the out-of-place rustler I am. I tip my hat, dragging on the third or fourth cig of the short day, and give em my best fuck you smile. It ain't my fault Ms. high class took me back to her place.

The car finally rolls to the curb and I tell the fat dude behind the wheel to find me a Waffle House. He looks at me like I have two heads. I try and sound it out being massively sarcastic. He obviously doesn't catch my humor or my southern English accent. I say how about a diner then. He takes me to a little place steps from where the big show will be and where I'm supposed to attend a meeting or two. Bonus Big Guy!!

I step out of his car Ompah music blaring as I open the door. He takes off as I make my way to the diner. Points to the owner, it looks like a genuine 50s diner complete with lil jukeboxes. I order a coffee and waffles and tip my hat as the rather large waitress with a rather hairy mole waddles away. For some reason, the question of whether or not they tip in Germany pops into my head. I throw a few Deutch marks on the table and make my way into the bright sun again.

Another day another dollar.....

Honey bunch I'm startin to worry about ya. There was an ol country singer back in the day named George Jones. You may have heard of him or not. He's an old fucker, maybe dead I reckon. Point being this guy got called No Show Jones. He earned this unfortunate moniker because he got so drunk he wouldn't show up at his shows more often than not. Axel Rose was good for that in the late 80s early 90s too. It sounds like you are gonna join them in that unfortunate Hall Of Fame. I can't criticize what I don't see gal. I guess you already quit. Hell, I won't even get to use the fun big time moves I had waiting for ya. I should take up a wager in the back with the fellas on if you will show up or not. I guess I will mosey on down the road with my jack and cigar and wait for Wednesday night.