I'm dead. And posting this from beyond. That's all the explanation I can give you. Smee's scotch killed me. Or rather, drinking almost all of it killed me.
Missed reville. Did my best, but my efforts at getting dressed and leaving the hotel for morning chores and tours consisted mostly of groaning painfully and pulling more pillows over my face. I'm over. Roll credits, recognize the gaffer, and send Special Thanks to the destillery that made this specatular train-wreck possible.
And then our Tour-Princess charged in and announced that with someone else kicked off the boat (a volunteer with a free-flowing mouth managed to get himself demoted to "Scab," and put on permanent bilge-detail until he could catch a flight home), naptime was over and it was time for work. "Sweet. I can do this. I actually feel pretty good, considering!" So I hopped up, brushed my teeth,propped my eyelids open with matchsticks and proceeded to hobble across the park back to the brig.
And got about halfway there before realizing that this *wasn't* going to happen. Not now, and maybe not ever. Or at least until my corrupted, zombie-body rehydrated a little. I did my best brains-craving-zombie-shamble in a wide arc around a playground that was in the way, and made it to the dock before I started feeding poison to the fishes. I lay there for awhile, thinking about how warm and comfortable (and mind-splitting) the sunny planks were, and how much more fun being dead would be before hobbling up to the gangplank to get to work.
But then instead I hobbled *past* it and plopped down near the bow to 2-6 off the dock some more. Ya know, just to be spontaneous. And it felt like the right thing to do just then. Concerned shipmates brought me pitchers of water and I did my best to keep the rest of my brains from squeezing out of my eyes and ears.
Finally I cracked my eyes open, and saw a dusty black Carhartt standing next to me. And inching my gaze upward, I saw a scraggly hand clutching a smoldering half-finished cigarette...
..Aw hell! Busted by the Man!
Looking up at Captainface with the sheepiest look I could manage through the agony, I mumbled an apology for my uselessness, before he pointed out that although crew weren't permitted to shirk their duties just because they'd poisoned themselves, I *was* supposed to be going to the dentist that day anyway. "You'll learn a lot about yourself in a dentist's waiting room while that hung over!"
SOOooooo we packed me off to the dentist. With some hydrating I could finally hold down the meds for a migraine I was juggling with the hangover, and was starting to feel better. Caught a cab to a real-life medical establishment (I'd figured that a walk-in dentist would be in the back of a warehouse someplace presided over by Doctor Viktor Ivanovich the Eviscerator) and got some plastic bondo smeared over my dented tooth.
Later I was directed to spend the evening un-destroying the hotel room, where I also washed some Sorry-Laundry for drinking all of Smee's nasty axle-grease.
