Deb came back to consciousness reluctantly. Very reluctantly. She had tried hard the night before to make sure that she wouldn’t have to deal with consciousness the next day, but alas, just one more failure.
She began to move, also reluctantly, and only partially underneath the sheets. She became vaguely aware that she was naked, but was too concerned with the massive headache that seemed to be permeating her entire body. Where was she?
She opened her eyes (reluctantly) sat up (reluctantly) and looked around (painfully). The unfamiliar room was small but not prohibitively so. Clothing was everywhere, too much of it to all have been removed from bodies last night. There was an old dirty couch across the room from the bed and an old dirty dresser on the other side, next to a closed door with… what looked like a fresh bullet hole in it (mildly concerning, but sure).
Unconscious on the floor was a mostly naked young man that Deb didn’t recognize. Unconscious on the couch was a completely naked young woman drooling on her pillow. Deb didn’t recall meeting either of them, but she just shook her head, rolled her eyes (whatever) and once again rubbed her head.
She began the long and confusing process of finding her clothes. She found her gun belt first (somehow she always finds that first). The belt was missing one gun, however (the good one, too). She immediately gave up on her clothes and started looking for the gun. Tossing clothes, pushing over naked, grumbling bodies, she eventually found it behind the couch, clearly thrown there and missing one round (I guess that explains the door).
She found her pants and one boot in the room. Through bleary eyes, she opened the newly ventilated door to a short hallway that lead to a larger room that included a small galley-style kitchen and a living room with a couple couches. There were two clothed men sleeping on the couches and a man in pajama bottoms in the kitchen cooking something that probably would smell good if it didn’t make Deb wanna vomit (fucking whiskey). “Good morning,” said the cook through raised eyebrows, “want some breakfast?”
“No,” croaked Deb, “where’s my shirt and boot?”
“Well I think your boot may be that one over on the couch under Tom, and as I recall, you took your shirt off, threw it somewhere and said ‘fuck it, let’s get weird’,” replied the cook with no small amount of amused judgement.
Deb stared at the cook through a pouting, hungover frown for a moment (You are way too coherent right now. I kinda want to shoot you). Then she suddenly gave up on the frown and muttered, “Actually that sounds about right.”
She walked over to the couch, grabbed her boot from underneath the feet of Tom, then pushed Tom off the couch and starting rifling through the cushions. Tom landed with a thud and demanded an angry, sleepy “What the fuck?”
She didn’t find her shirt, but she found her jacket crumpled into the corner of the couch cushions. “This’ll work,” she said, putting the jacket on and moving to the door (I’ve got other shirts).
She reached the door, paused, turned around and said with a shrug, “Thanks for the… roof over my head, Ben.”
“Ben? Who’s Ben?” asked the cook.
Deb opened the door, “You are.”
“Uh, no I’m not.”
Deb stopped in the middle of the doorway and gave a short exasperated sigh to herself (Why are you making me explain?), “Yes, you are. You’re Ben, and he’s Ben, all you dicks are Ben. And Ben can go fuck himself.”
The door slammed behind her a little harder than she had intended.