The Unnamed adventures of Roger Weaver

The Unnamed adventures of Roger Weaver

Chapter 5

     The Story The Authors
Thusly braced with a healthy Kentucky glow the group began the arduous trek back up the cliff face utilizing the back stairs (cleverly concealed behind an enormous stack of old Tiger Beats in Davey Jones' spare storage shed)stopping periodically for more refreshment. By the time they had reached Old Boar's cave all were pretty looped.
"Ah do decleh tha theesh is the finesh time Ah's haid since las' Duhby Tahm." Old Boar stated before passing out.

When consciousness reclaimed Roger he found himself already far far away from the Old Boar's lair. He was also very very hungover. It felt like the inside of his skull had been lined with sandpaper and even the act of blinking(once he'd pried his eyelids free from the crust) was enough to cause the quivering jelly like mass of his brain tissue to chafe against it. His mouth tasted like he'd been licking the pot in which they make stamp glue and his entire left leg was asleep from where he'd lain strewn in the dust of the cavern floor. With as little effort as he could exert he tried to remember how he'd come to be here.
The Cat In the Hat pushing him to continue. Excited and slurred exhortations from the Things. Supplies. He needed supplies. Stumbling back to Davey Jones' Locker to scrounge. A return journey. More bourbon. The secret door. Sleep. Here.
He lifted his head slightly. The contents of his skull shifted against his eyballs with a resounding internal screech. The gun was still in place in his belt. His pantsleg was torn at the knee. He had managed to lose the other shoe. (or had he hurled it at Thing Two in a fit of drunken pique.) and beside him was a slightly battered Monkees lunchbox. Fumbling fingers worked it open. Contents: three stale Pilsbury space stix, a packet of Pop Rocks and a thermos.
From somewhere nearby familiar twin giggles arose only to trail off into groans. He twisted the lid of the thermos and with a prayer of thanks to the kindness within smacked his lips on a taste of Kentucky dog that bit him.

Hands trembling with a case of the dreaded hangovericum tremens, stomach churning with the whirly nose of the bourbon, and even the little interior voice of his conscience (which was then in the process of writing "I Will Never Drink Again" seventeen thousand times on the endless blackboard of Roger's guilt) had to admit that hair-o'-the-dawg was the only way — he brought the thermos to his lips — but stopped, suddenly remembering a song:

Oh —
I'm —
Picking out a thermos for you
Not an ordinary thermos for you
But the extra-best thermos
You can buy —
With vinyl!
And stripes!
And a cup built right in —
I'm picking out a thermos for yoooooouuuuu
And maybe a barometer too—

Coincidentally, however, his off-key rendition of the old standard was cut short at exactly the same point where Steve Martin's rendition of it was cut short in The Jerk — for it was at that moment that Anita stormed into the cave, tripped over the snoring, pungent heap comprised of the bodies of Boar, the Cat in the Hat (whose dreams, even, transpired solely in AABB rhyme schemes), and Things One and Two, and hurtled toward Roger. He caught her; he lost the bourbon in the process, it's true, but he did catch her; "Roger?" she gasped, astonished, catching her first whiff of the distillery he'd become; he watched the last of the spilled bourbon dribbling away into a crack in the cave floor; he sniffled; he tried to bring her face into focus through his hangover, but failed blearily, closed his eyes, and heaved a sigh.
"Hi Anita," he said, "How's New York?" the tone of his voice making no attempt to disguise the fact that her answer to his question would make not one whit of a difference to him...

But still, he tried to listen. She spoke of lost love; a transgression in New York, that started as a simple kiss, then turned passionate, heated, from like, to lust, to love! Was he hearing correctly? The marriage was off? She was leaving him, never to return? What a cruel day this had turned out to be. Where did that bourbon go? Maybe there was a small sip left on the cave floor. He searched . . . in vain. Samantha Hawn

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