The cranial hum indicated there might have been carnage, possibly the good mayhem about which Hunter S. Thompson wrote.
Curtis Lagamont hoped that was the case.
Nothing smelled amiss–no smoke, no puke, not even that glistening scent of burnt microwave popcorn.
The memories would come back, Curtis knew, in little flashes, til they screeched to a halt or until someone reminded him of something his brain hadn’t downloaded.
The apartment smelled too fruity, if that was possible, probably someone vaping some kind of tropical mishmash.
Blonde hair spilled over the side of his bed.
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