HANGOVER
Tim woke up that morning with a terrible hangover. He thought of last night: his friend's house and a drinking game; the drive into the city; drinking a forty-ouncer on the way; going to the river; looking across the bay into Canada; the cold; smoking cigarettes; being alone; driving back to his friend's house; laughing and talking; more drinking; driving home; watching pornography; the swirl of a drunken hard-on; finally blackness.
He sat up. The television was loud with static. Daylight crept in from between the mini-blinds. A beer was spilled on the hardwood beneath him, explaining the sudden wet on his feet. "Shit!" He yelled, lifting his feet, pulling off the socks, and throwing them across the living room. He grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. He poked his forehead with his hand and groaned. "Aspirin," he thought, and stumbled his way around the spilled beer to the bathroom.
He took a shit and wiped. He scratched his beard. The mirror was full of a face he knew all to well. Inside the medicine cabinet was the aspirin. He took four and walked into the bedroom. He fumbled through his dresser looking for something to wear. He grabbed something and poked himself through it. He threw on some shoes and hit the kitchen. He grabbed what was left of an old burrito ate a few bites. "Yummy," he thought. He threw the burrito back in the fridge and went into the basement.
A body lay on a table. It was dead. Tim touched it. He poked at it with his fingers and smelled it. Nothing. He bent over its lips and kissed it. It was empty. Tim frowned. He looked into its crotch and decided to saw its legs off.
One appendage at a time, Tim ran a hacksaw through the bloodless limbs. Once removed, he threw the legs in the corner of the room. The dismembered corpse stared. It was young, and its frame was small, too small, really, but it looked somehow sexier without its crotch. Tim belched and looked at the legs in the corner. He felt suddenly bored. He went upstairs and flipped the TV back on.
Oprah was on. She was talking about women who had learned to love again after the death of their spouse. Tim looked into the television. It was just starting, the show, so he had enough time to grab the rest of the burrito in the fridge. The doorbell rang. "Fuck," he thought, and went to the door, annoyed
"Yeah?" he demanded as he swung the door wide. A small boy stood in front of him in t-shirt and shorts. His knobby knees were black with dirt and he was entirely moist with sweat. Tim smiled suddenly.
"Want your grass cut?" the kid asked.
