Even Reservoir Dogs Get Headaches in the Morning
Anyone who's ever had a rough morning after a long liquor-filled night should know how it feels. If not, let the Dogs illustrate how it can be. Brought to you by the minds of myself, remycognac, and vanillahellsing, the Syndicate Saga plunges ahead, in spite of the hangover...
Part Six
Brown woke up and had a look at the mess surrounding him. Actually, first he sat up and slammed his head into the bottom of the table he had fallen asleep under and only after crawling out from under there did he survey the scene.
“Oh fucking great,” he grumbled to himself. “Those bastards leave me here alone to clean up their mess. That’s just peachy.”
Brown then noticed Blonde lying in the booth next to him and, of course, overreacted.
What the fuck happened here?
Several scenarios went through Brown’s head - most involving Willie Nelson, the movie Top Gun, and battery acid - before the inevitable hangover migraine snuck its way into his gigantic forehead. From that point on pretty much everything else was futile.
Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself over to the bar to try that old “Hair of the Dog” remedy but found he was drawing a complete blank on what he had drunk the night before, so he resigned himself to a few aspirin and some Sprite. It was about that time that he realized he had to pee…badly…very badly. The kind of piss that only comes after a long night of boozing. Scanning for the bathroom his search was unsuccessful. He had no idea where anything was. Thus, Brown began the pee-pee dance.
Words were beyond him so when he opened his mouth only a loud, steady, “Ooooh!” came out. He ran around in circles for a little bit before racing up the stairs in hopes of finding a porcelain throne somewhere upstairs.
***
O-Ren Ishii awoke with something of an odd feeling in her head. Well, I suppose the hangover was inescapable. One cannot consume that much sake without consequences. She stretched and picked up her katana. A noise downstairs caught her attention as she opened her bedroom door. That’s either Blonde, Brown, or both. She nearly collided with Brown as he came barreling up the stairs.
“Can! Piss! Now!” Brown blurted out, squirming.
O-Ren pointed to the end of the hall. “Down that way and make a left.”
“Thanks, geisha baby!” Brown called as he raced down the corridor, hanging a sharp turn and disappearing around the bend.
She shook her head. What an odd man… She walked through the bar downstairs, eyeing a slumbering Blonde - who somehow managed to look devious even in his sleep. She unlocked the door and stepped outside, momentarily blinded by the sunlight. Shielding her eyes, the lady warrior went in search of something to eat.
***
Orange opened his eyes lazily and yawned. He recognized the sound going down the hall outside the room. “I think Brown is awake now.”
White rolled over in bed, choosing to ignore the commotion. “I think you’re right.” He yawned and went back to sleep.
Orange couldn’t fall back asleep as easily as White did so he decided to get up and…
Jesus H. Christ, my head fucking hurts!
…make himself a hangover remedy. Prairie Oysters were nasty as all hell but they were good for something. Now if he could just get the floor to stop moving.
***
Brown emerged from the bathroom relieved that his bladder hadn’t exploded. Walking down the hall, inspiration struck, which could only mean trouble. He picked up speed and began pulling off articles of clothing like a madman. No one else seemed to be awake so now was as good a time as any to do what he’d always wanted to do.
“Tom Cruise loves his waffles! It’s Morphin’ time! Whoo-hoo!”
He slid down the banister of the staircase and sprinted to the jukebox. Oh fuck yes! Lo and behold, there was the exact song he was looking for. He tossed a coin in and punched in his selection: “Old Time Rock N’ Roll” by Bob Seiger.
The next thing Brown knew, he was sliding across the hardwood floor in nothing but his shirt, underwear, socks, and sunglasses. He danced and sauntered around with an empty bottle in his hand with a big grin plastered on his face, having the time of his life until…
“TURN THAT FUCKING NOISE DOWN!”
It was Blonde. Blonde didn’t like mornings. Blonde liked mornings even less when dancing idiots and loud music woke him up. Somewhere out there, a record skipped. He bolted upright with all the fury of a waking dragon and stared at Brown with enough malice to set a man on fire.
Not wanting to die at the time, Brown high-tailed it back to the juke and yanked the chord out of the wall, plunging the room back into silence.
“Yeesh,” Brown murmured to himself, “I guess no one here is a morning person.”
Laughter floated in from the stairs.
“And just what’s so fucking funny?” Blonde growled, now in a bad mood and as hungover as the rest of them.
“Nothing,” Orange replied, shaking his head but still laughing.
“Exactly, nothing, just what I thought.”
“So, what are you up to there, my good man?” Brown asked, swaggering up to the bar - still sans his pants. “Making a little Hair of the Dog?” That was one of his new favorite things to say.
Orange grinned as he lined up tomato juice, eggs, Worcestershire sauce, and other odd ingredients. “Not quite.”
Brown leaned in closer and frowned. “What the hell is that?”
Blonde sauntered over, curious.
Pouring the ingredients into a glass, Orange remarked, “Have you ever had a Prairie Oyster?”
“Is that like a Rocky Mountain Oyster?” Brown asked.
“Not even close.”
“Oh, because I’ve had those.”
“Really?” Orange snickered. “How was it?”
Brown shrugged. “It was kind of chewy.”
Blonde laughed. “Do you even know what a Rocky Mountain Oyster is?”
***
An ear-splitting shriek could be heard on the other side as O-Ren approached the front door. She returned to the Reservoir Syndicate not because she missed it in any shape or form but because she wanted to make sure she was there when Elle woke up. Hopefully, conflict could be avoided. Their list of allies had thinned out enough these days and the last thing they needed were more enemies.
“Oh my fucking God!” Brown howled. “That’s what a Rocky Mountain Oyster is?!”
“Oh yeah,” Blonde answered, grinning cruelly.
Brown looked like he was about to cry…or vomit, one or the other. He spun around to Orange and implored, “He’s shitting me, right? That ain’t true, is it?”
“I hate to break it to you, but he’s not lying,” Orange said.
“What trouble are you causing, Mr. Orange?” O-Ren inquired.
“Hey, come on, I’m not causing any trouble,” he countered. “You’ve been listening to White too much. He worries, you know? Besides, if there’s anyone making a ruckus it’s these two.”
“Rocky Mountain Oysters are…are…are…” Brown’s eyes grew wide and deranged as his lip quivered.
“Calf testicles,” Blonde stated, still grinning.
Brown let out another scream and ran circles around the room. When he finally returned to his spot at the bar his face was two shades greener. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Well then you should have one of these and it’ll make you feel better,” Orange commented. He had three glasses lined up now, each with the same ingredients, and was adding whole eggs to them.
O-Ren perched herself on a nearby stool and began unwrapping the box she had brought with her. “Well at least you took the eggs out of their shells first. What is that?”
Brown zeroed in on what O-Ren had brought with her. “Food! Samurai sweetie, you got me breakfast!” He sidled up and peered over her shoulder. “Food, food, food. Wait, what is that crap? I see no flapjacks.”
O-Ren gave him the expressionless stare of a snake preparing to strike. “Lay one finger on my breakfast and you will no longer have any hands.”
“That does look interesting, though,” Orange observed. “I recognize the rice, fish, and miso soup but what the other stuff?”
“Natto.”
“What’s that?”
“Fermented soy beans.”
“Yeah, that sounds really appetizing,” Blonde scoffed.
“It’s more appetizing that whatever he’s making,” O-Ren fired back, gesturing to Orange’s chemist-gone-wrong concoction.
“It’s a Prairie Oyster,” Orange explained, “an old hangover remedy handed down through the generations. It takes the edge off the morning better than aspirin or coffee.”
“Is that a fact?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe. But that’s what my old man used to say and he knew a thing or two about boozing.” He added the last splash of white vinegar to the mix and handed Blonde and Brown their glasses. “Bottoms up, fellas.” Then Orange downed it in one gulp. Ugh, nasty as hell but good for something.
“Stop staring at my natto, tighty-whitey boy,” O-Ren warned.
Mr. Brown froze, realizing he was still not wearing any pants. Yelping, he grabbed Mr. Blonde’s silver tray from the night before and positioned it in front of him to save everyone from a rather uncomfortable moment. Looking at his hand he noticed he was still holding the Prairie Oyster and, out of sheer terror and embarrassment, chugged it down.
Blonde’s face contorted as he swallowed the mixture. “Holy fuck, that was horrible.” He glared at Mr. Orange. “Was that some kind of joke, you little bastard?”
“No joke,” Orange responded. “It’s disgusting but trust me, in about fifteen minutes you’ll thank me for it.”
Brown’s color was now somewhere between chartreuse and white. He moaned quietly to himself as he swayed on pants-less legs towards the juke. “Music, need music. Eggsies, poison eggsies.” He plugged the machine back in and filled the room with the tune of “Good Morning, Starshine.”
To be continued...
The story thus far:
Part One: Welcome to the Syndicate
Part Two: Hanging with the Syndicate
Part Three: Boozing with the Syndicate
Part Four: Gambling with the Syndicate
Part Five: Cards and Crazy Bitches.
Part Six
Brown woke up and had a look at the mess surrounding him. Actually, first he sat up and slammed his head into the bottom of the table he had fallen asleep under and only after crawling out from under there did he survey the scene.
“Oh fucking great,” he grumbled to himself. “Those bastards leave me here alone to clean up their mess. That’s just peachy.”
Brown then noticed Blonde lying in the booth next to him and, of course, overreacted.
What the fuck happened here?
Several scenarios went through Brown’s head - most involving Willie Nelson, the movie Top Gun, and battery acid - before the inevitable hangover migraine snuck its way into his gigantic forehead. From that point on pretty much everything else was futile.
Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself over to the bar to try that old “Hair of the Dog” remedy but found he was drawing a complete blank on what he had drunk the night before, so he resigned himself to a few aspirin and some Sprite. It was about that time that he realized he had to pee…badly…very badly. The kind of piss that only comes after a long night of boozing. Scanning for the bathroom his search was unsuccessful. He had no idea where anything was. Thus, Brown began the pee-pee dance.
Words were beyond him so when he opened his mouth only a loud, steady, “Ooooh!” came out. He ran around in circles for a little bit before racing up the stairs in hopes of finding a porcelain throne somewhere upstairs.
***
O-Ren Ishii awoke with something of an odd feeling in her head. Well, I suppose the hangover was inescapable. One cannot consume that much sake without consequences. She stretched and picked up her katana. A noise downstairs caught her attention as she opened her bedroom door. That’s either Blonde, Brown, or both. She nearly collided with Brown as he came barreling up the stairs.
“Can! Piss! Now!” Brown blurted out, squirming.
O-Ren pointed to the end of the hall. “Down that way and make a left.”
“Thanks, geisha baby!” Brown called as he raced down the corridor, hanging a sharp turn and disappearing around the bend.
She shook her head. What an odd man… She walked through the bar downstairs, eyeing a slumbering Blonde - who somehow managed to look devious even in his sleep. She unlocked the door and stepped outside, momentarily blinded by the sunlight. Shielding her eyes, the lady warrior went in search of something to eat.
***
Orange opened his eyes lazily and yawned. He recognized the sound going down the hall outside the room. “I think Brown is awake now.”
White rolled over in bed, choosing to ignore the commotion. “I think you’re right.” He yawned and went back to sleep.
Orange couldn’t fall back asleep as easily as White did so he decided to get up and…
Jesus H. Christ, my head fucking hurts!
…make himself a hangover remedy. Prairie Oysters were nasty as all hell but they were good for something. Now if he could just get the floor to stop moving.
***
Brown emerged from the bathroom relieved that his bladder hadn’t exploded. Walking down the hall, inspiration struck, which could only mean trouble. He picked up speed and began pulling off articles of clothing like a madman. No one else seemed to be awake so now was as good a time as any to do what he’d always wanted to do.
“Tom Cruise loves his waffles! It’s Morphin’ time! Whoo-hoo!”
He slid down the banister of the staircase and sprinted to the jukebox. Oh fuck yes! Lo and behold, there was the exact song he was looking for. He tossed a coin in and punched in his selection: “Old Time Rock N’ Roll” by Bob Seiger.
The next thing Brown knew, he was sliding across the hardwood floor in nothing but his shirt, underwear, socks, and sunglasses. He danced and sauntered around with an empty bottle in his hand with a big grin plastered on his face, having the time of his life until…
“TURN THAT FUCKING NOISE DOWN!”
It was Blonde. Blonde didn’t like mornings. Blonde liked mornings even less when dancing idiots and loud music woke him up. Somewhere out there, a record skipped. He bolted upright with all the fury of a waking dragon and stared at Brown with enough malice to set a man on fire.
Not wanting to die at the time, Brown high-tailed it back to the juke and yanked the chord out of the wall, plunging the room back into silence.
“Yeesh,” Brown murmured to himself, “I guess no one here is a morning person.”
Laughter floated in from the stairs.
“And just what’s so fucking funny?” Blonde growled, now in a bad mood and as hungover as the rest of them.
“Nothing,” Orange replied, shaking his head but still laughing.
“Exactly, nothing, just what I thought.”
“So, what are you up to there, my good man?” Brown asked, swaggering up to the bar - still sans his pants. “Making a little Hair of the Dog?” That was one of his new favorite things to say.
Orange grinned as he lined up tomato juice, eggs, Worcestershire sauce, and other odd ingredients. “Not quite.”
Brown leaned in closer and frowned. “What the hell is that?”
Blonde sauntered over, curious.
Pouring the ingredients into a glass, Orange remarked, “Have you ever had a Prairie Oyster?”
“Is that like a Rocky Mountain Oyster?” Brown asked.
“Not even close.”
“Oh, because I’ve had those.”
“Really?” Orange snickered. “How was it?”
Brown shrugged. “It was kind of chewy.”
Blonde laughed. “Do you even know what a Rocky Mountain Oyster is?”
***
An ear-splitting shriek could be heard on the other side as O-Ren approached the front door. She returned to the Reservoir Syndicate not because she missed it in any shape or form but because she wanted to make sure she was there when Elle woke up. Hopefully, conflict could be avoided. Their list of allies had thinned out enough these days and the last thing they needed were more enemies.
“Oh my fucking God!” Brown howled. “That’s what a Rocky Mountain Oyster is?!”
“Oh yeah,” Blonde answered, grinning cruelly.
Brown looked like he was about to cry…or vomit, one or the other. He spun around to Orange and implored, “He’s shitting me, right? That ain’t true, is it?”
“I hate to break it to you, but he’s not lying,” Orange said.
“What trouble are you causing, Mr. Orange?” O-Ren inquired.
“Hey, come on, I’m not causing any trouble,” he countered. “You’ve been listening to White too much. He worries, you know? Besides, if there’s anyone making a ruckus it’s these two.”
“Rocky Mountain Oysters are…are…are…” Brown’s eyes grew wide and deranged as his lip quivered.
“Calf testicles,” Blonde stated, still grinning.
Brown let out another scream and ran circles around the room. When he finally returned to his spot at the bar his face was two shades greener. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Well then you should have one of these and it’ll make you feel better,” Orange commented. He had three glasses lined up now, each with the same ingredients, and was adding whole eggs to them.
O-Ren perched herself on a nearby stool and began unwrapping the box she had brought with her. “Well at least you took the eggs out of their shells first. What is that?”
Brown zeroed in on what O-Ren had brought with her. “Food! Samurai sweetie, you got me breakfast!” He sidled up and peered over her shoulder. “Food, food, food. Wait, what is that crap? I see no flapjacks.”
O-Ren gave him the expressionless stare of a snake preparing to strike. “Lay one finger on my breakfast and you will no longer have any hands.”
“That does look interesting, though,” Orange observed. “I recognize the rice, fish, and miso soup but what the other stuff?”
“Natto.”
“What’s that?”
“Fermented soy beans.”
“Yeah, that sounds really appetizing,” Blonde scoffed.
“It’s more appetizing that whatever he’s making,” O-Ren fired back, gesturing to Orange’s chemist-gone-wrong concoction.
“It’s a Prairie Oyster,” Orange explained, “an old hangover remedy handed down through the generations. It takes the edge off the morning better than aspirin or coffee.”
“Is that a fact?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe. But that’s what my old man used to say and he knew a thing or two about boozing.” He added the last splash of white vinegar to the mix and handed Blonde and Brown their glasses. “Bottoms up, fellas.” Then Orange downed it in one gulp. Ugh, nasty as hell but good for something.
“Stop staring at my natto, tighty-whitey boy,” O-Ren warned.
Mr. Brown froze, realizing he was still not wearing any pants. Yelping, he grabbed Mr. Blonde’s silver tray from the night before and positioned it in front of him to save everyone from a rather uncomfortable moment. Looking at his hand he noticed he was still holding the Prairie Oyster and, out of sheer terror and embarrassment, chugged it down.
Blonde’s face contorted as he swallowed the mixture. “Holy fuck, that was horrible.” He glared at Mr. Orange. “Was that some kind of joke, you little bastard?”
“No joke,” Orange responded. “It’s disgusting but trust me, in about fifteen minutes you’ll thank me for it.”
Brown’s color was now somewhere between chartreuse and white. He moaned quietly to himself as he swayed on pants-less legs towards the juke. “Music, need music. Eggsies, poison eggsies.” He plugged the machine back in and filled the room with the tune of “Good Morning, Starshine.”
To be continued...
The story thus far:
Part One: Welcome to the Syndicate
Part Two: Hanging with the Syndicate
Part Three: Boozing with the Syndicate
Part Four: Gambling with the Syndicate
Part Five: Cards and Crazy Bitches.