partying with a german

whole body hurts like hell, especially the left shoulder. cyclops doesn't even have the strength to open his eyes, but he is clearly at someone's house. what he is lying on is very similar to a sofa, uncomfortable and incredibly creaky. the smell of alcohol and incense hits his nose. alucard always lights incense, without them he gets mad. ears are ringing. the best morning after a fucking dream with a garage in vomit. after drinking, everything is blurred. he vomited when he tried to brush his teeth. alucard again barely dragged the half-dead body to the toilet with telekinesis. it is worth paying tribute: without alucard, the cyclops would have fallen into a ditch and rotted. pale under one hundred and fifty-eight centimeters tall, lucas seemed to the second-year stupid since high school unearthly, detached, giving not everyone a look at how a conspiracy for diarrhea is made personally for mr. flacit, or just spurs with the properties of logarithms for a dollar. polaroids didn't allow us to make stones out of the whole environment, like the gorgon medusa. in a different way, cyril could not give an explanation to the glasses. because of his forever fluffed hair, he was being electrocuted. it still happens. alucard only slept for two hours that night: at first, cyril called, tried to give something out with his slurred tongue, but it was already clear that he was asking for a night out, because it was cyril, he could not do otherwise. a little something — "a-a-alu, fuck, i beg you, help me out, otherwise i'll di-ie". then, with telekinesis, drag a huge carcass up the stairs and somehow drag it to the bath. then patch up the wounds and brew him own bitter herbal tea. now he wants to hide from the hangover cyclops as soon as possible and fall asleep under the soft moon and incense, but no one else will take care of him, if not the deceased mother. nothing gets into his mouth, cyril just swallows water, as if he spent a week in the desert, got a heat stroke and was only brought home at night. nothing would have changed, there would have been the same desire to throw up the liver, the mood would have been zero and there would have been thoughts of dying socially for a while. lucas will ask where the deep bite on the shoulder, already treated and sealed with a breathing plaster, comes from. so there was a crocodile in the desert. anyway, cyril doesn't remember anything. lucas didn't question him further. he decided to put cyclops back to sleep for another quarter of a day while the phone vibrated violently. only in the late afternoon, he picked up the phone, after another stomach cleansing and a long examination of himself in the mirror, while alucard went to the pharmacy for corvalol. the patch on the sore shoulder is already soaked, bloody, the bruises under the eyes are darker than usual. and in the phone, these are the messages: c444ss_fst shit i thought i wouldnt find ur account but i had to go into the subscriptions of one of those who played ballads to us last night... is this ur classmate? how r u? did u die while u're walking home?)) u couldnt even connect half a word 3:58 pm it took cyclops about three minutes to figure out who wrote it. when he remembered, he realized with a strong cough that the erotic dream with the garage in vomit was not a dream at all. he won't tell alucard about this yet. i think it will be fun next.