Vera wasn’t here—of course not, she worked at two. Paul attempted to get out of bed, and an abrupt pressure in his head sent him right back down.
Slower this time, he got up. A glance in the mirror made him groan: naked, pale, dark circles like charcoal under his eyes. He curiously raised a hand to his face, and noted an excess of stubble. It felt like more than a day’s growth.
He stared into the mirror, bloodshot eyes going wide…
He was watching himself…in the…nightmare…
He mouth tasted like a cat had pissed in it. Some nameless crust seemed flaked around his mouth and across his stomach. Suddenly he sneezed. Pain quaked in his skull, and into his hand he’d sneezed…blood.
“What the hell?” he slowly asked himself.
Paul nearly shrieked at the hard thuds. Someone was knocking on the door. Correction—they weren’t knocking, they were
“Open up, Kirby!” hollered a sharp, muffled voice. “Your car’s in the lot, I know you’re in there!”
“All right, already.” The thuds made his head hurt worse. But who could it be?
“Open this fucking door, Kirby, before I kick it down!”
It was Tate, his editor at the
“Where is it?” Tate demanded. Some mysterious rage pinked his face. His fists opened and closed at his sides.
“What are you so pissed off about?” Paul asked. “Take off your coat, have a seat—”
“I ain’t got time to have a fucking seat. I got a newspaper to put out, remember? So hand it over!’’
“Hand
“The first installment on the singles bar series. It was your bright idea, wonderboy, so where is it?”
“You’ll get it. It’s due Thursday noon.”
“Yeah, and that was five and a half fucking hours ago!” Tate bellowed. “Don’t tell me you don’t have it, Kirby. I got the whole weekend section set to go, and a big blank fifteen-hundred-word block sitting there waiting for your shit! Do you have it or not?”
Paul’s memory felt like a clogged artery. This was impossible. “It’s…Thursday?”
“Yes, you moron, it’s Thursday—that’s
