FIC: Misha's Day Out
Fandom: RPF/RPS
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Misha Collins/OC (brief hookup)
A/N: Based off true stories, true stories combined with other true stories, and untrue stories. It's worth nothing that I wrote this drunk at four in the morning. It is also worth noting that I do not condone driving while intoxicated. Enjoy!
When Misha woke, he smiled. He remembered that as he lay awake in bed the night before, he couldn't wait to go to sleep, because when he woke up it would be today - his day out.
He rolled over and looked at the digital clock. 7:20 AM glowed in red. He sat up, swung his feet over the side of the bed, stood, and promptly got naked. On special days he ate breakfast nude on the porch, and today was a special day.
Misha ate cereal out of a plastic bowl, watching the dogwalkers stare horrified for a moment, and then pretend not to notice and walk faster. He took a cell phone photo of himself for Twitter; the first of many he planned for his day out. He liked to have photo narratives of his special days, like today. He double-checked to make sure his junk wasn't showing. Though his junk was very impressive, or so he'd been told, he didn't want to be reported.
The Man always censored him.
He chased those remaining rebel Froot Loops around the sides of the bowl, and drank the sugary milk, mixed with the vodka he'd poured in. He stood, and stretched for an exaggerated moment. As he walked back inside, he heard a wolf whistle, and then chanting.
“3.0! 3.0! 3.0!”
Misha wondered what scale that was on.
-----
Misha went to the museum when it opened at 10. They had the Body Worlds exhibit for an extended week, and Misha loved to see mutilated corpses in amusing poses.
He took a photo of himself giving a thumbs-up next to a corpse throwing a javelin, and got a stern warning from museum security. In retrospect, he thought, mentioning that, although it was not pertinent at the moment he was double-jointed, was a mistake. They let him stay, though, in exchange for a photo for the guard's presumably fangirl daughter.
They kicked him out after he lit a cigarette and started asking the children in a gravelly accent if they wanted to see a dead body. As he was escorted to the door, he realized this was the second fastest he'd ever been escorted out of a museum. He was sad that he didn't break his record of two minutes 18 seconds.
On the bright side, he'd managed to steal a dinosaur toy from the gift shop beforehand.
I'm a museum thief now. He thought with a smile.
-----
After searching for artifact burglar circuit applications online and coming up empty, Misha decided to take the bus to Village Inn for lunch. Perkin's was closer, but he was a classy fellow, and only hoodlums went to Perkin's.
The waiter didn't respond to his homosexual advances, so Misha had to find another way to get out of the bill. He didn't feel like paying. Usually grabbing genitalia and winking worked so well. He got an iPhone out of it last time.
After he ate his wonderful pancakes, Misha began picking the ice out of his empty Sprite and throwing it at people. He'd made two dunks into elderly women's cleavage when they asked him to leave. Once outside, he booked it, before they remembered that he hadn't paid.
-----
It was finally noon, so Misha went to his favorite bar; where, in fact, no one knows your name. That was how he preferred it. A bar where everyone knows you sounded intimidating to him.
Another good thing about this bar was that it was full of people looking for anonymous sex and debauchery. Within 15 minutes, Misha was giving an illegal Ecuadorian immigrant a blowjob in the bathroom.
Okay, 20 minutes.
As everyone does with oral sex, he expected the guy to eventually get hard and then they’d go to town. Unfortunately, the illegal - Jorge, Misha thought it was - didn’t seem to understand the concept of the light touch to the head or shoulder area, indicating that it was time. Jorge came just as Misha took his lips off the head. It gushed, with Misha at a close angle. He touched the side of his hair and felt come. He didn’t care too much at the moment, and gave the guy a handjob to make up for it.
Once he was actually hard, and Misha paid attention this time, he grabbed Jorge by the shoulders and whipped him around, so Misha’s back was to the wall. He shoved himself on Jorge’s cock, planted his legs the other side of the stall, and tried to remember how to say “thrust” in Spanish.
Thankfully, Jorge caught on, and Misha’s back was rubbing against the cool ceramic. Or whatever that material is that bathroom stalls are made of.
Wood? It’s too smooth for wood. Maybe they put some kind of coating on it. Metal, possibly, but it seems too solid. Plastic could be involved here.
Jorge was saying something in Spanish, but Misha didn’t really pay attention. He was more focused on the lovely way Jorge’s cock was hitting his prostate. Actually, he wasn’t quite sure if he actually spoke English anymore. Being full of Ecuadorian cock would do that to you, he figured.
Perhaps, he thought, I know Spanish now.
Just as Misha came, he exclaimed, “Taco!”
Nah, I don’t.
Jorge made quick work of his own situation, and they got dressed awkwardly. As they exited the bathroom, Misha gave a nod of goodbye, and began to turn. However, at that moment, Jorge said in a thick accent,
“Come with me.”
Misha shrugged, and did.
-----
Jorge - still wasn’t sure that was actually his name - led Misha to a hookah bar a few blocks away. They walked through the door and were met by a cloud of smoke. As they ventured further, Misha was unable to actually see anything other than shadowy forms sitting close together on various deep purple couches.
Jorge led Misha past the counter, nodding at the cashier, and through clinking beads in the doorway. Misha couldn’t help but to stop and paw them like a cat. After a few moments, Jorge grabbed Misha’s arm again, though Misha clung to a few strands that slipped through his fingers.
They sat on a couch with, presumably, the owners; that is, if the thick smell of a certain illegal plant was anything to go by. Jorge spoke to them in Spanish, and the other three men nodded and smiled. Apparently, Misha was accepted now.
They began sprinkling a large bud on the aluminum foil at the top of a hookah. Misha didn’t know a lot about marijuana, but damn if he wasn’t gonna pretend to.
I must use most - nay, all - of my knowledge of Seth Rogen films to get out of this one.
“Oh, uh, what kind is that?” he said, pointing weakly.
Jorge smiled at him with yellowing teeth and said, “Woah,”
“I…don’t think I’ve heard of that, um, kind. Is it, uh, a hybrid of, er…pineapple express, or something?”
The men glanced at each other and exchanged smiles. The one sitting next to Jorge leaned forward and repeated, “Woah,”
Two and a half bowls later, Misha had successfully nicknamed all the employees.
“You are, uh, a, um…” Reebok said, glancing at the table as if it would reveal the word he was thinking of to him.
“A lightweight,” Texas finished.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I would kill for some fries.” Misha said, melting into this really, really comfy couch.
Reebok, Texas, James K Polk, and Jorge all stared at him.
“No, seriously,” Misha said, lighting a cigarette from what he assumed was the communal pack, “I would take the life of an innocent man for fries. And ketchup! I looove ketchup. Hell, I’d kill the man’s wife for ketchup.”
Misha didn’t quite know how the fries appeared out of nowhere.
“Dude!” he said, taking a drag, “Where did those come from?!”
“We got them an hour ago,” James K Polk said, emphasizing the H, “From McDonald’s!”
“Seriously? It’s been an hour?”
“Please do not kill us sir.” Texas said.
Misha poured ketchup from a packet into the cardboard container bearing that comfortably familiar M, but didn’t quite know where his other hand had gotten off to.
“That’s alright, I don’t need you, right hand!” Misha declared, “I’m through with your betrayal!” With that, he poured the fries onto his face. Some of them got in, but not many.
“Damnit, Righty! Why hast thou crippled me so?”
Jorge took Misha’s hand and began to lead him, again through the main area.
“Righty, you’ve been in cahoots with Jorge all along! I knew it! You foul bedhopping whorefrog!”
Suddenly Misha was outside, and the door was closed.
----
Misha found out it was nine PM after a while of wandering, looking for some kind of bar. Or just, anywhere that served alcohol.
It turned out to be a nightclub.
He walked in, through hordes of people far more well-dressed than he, and tried to make his way through more hordes of people, but these hordes were gyrating. Misha tracked down the bar and ordered a straight Jack Daniels. He sat on a low couch before a light-up coffee table, and stared at the people grinding in the corner.
In my day we would have called that rape.
“You look like you’ve had some fun,” Misha suddenly heard. He turned, to a well-dressed man, save for the Corona beanie, sitting next to him.
“You could say that,” Misha replied, quirking a grin.
“You get high, man?”
“Oh yeah. I actually smoked some dank Woah earlier.”
“Woah?”
“Yeah,”
“Never even heard of it,” the man laughed, “But I’m sure it’s well-named. Come with me.”
Going with strangers had worked out well for him today, so Misha agreed, finishing the last of his drink. The man led him up several sets of stairs, to the roof of the club. Misha could see a faint sign in the distance reading, in neon, “Jonas Brothers Furs.” He had to laugh at that one.
The man led Misha to a group of people, sitting cross-legged together in a circle.
“This is my friend,” The man said, “He’s cool.”
The people collectively nodded, and turned back to what they were doing. Misha joined the circle, next to the man. All of them were wearing various combinations of hemp and brown leather and dreadlocks and dirtied bare feet and long flowing skirts and tribal beads and Buddhist tattoos. Misha felt at ease; he enjoyed the company of legitimate hippies like these. Not the Urban Outfitters hippies, the kind of hippies that are so baked all the time they don’t even notice how itchy their hemp pants are.
The hippies had four orange prescription bottles in the center of the circle, and each was crushing the pills with the side of their lighters, or swallowing handfuls with the sip of a red plastic cup, or staring wide-pupiled into the distance.
“What do you got?” Misha asked.
“Adderral, Vicodin, Xanax, and OxyContin,” One of them said as he snorted a line off the back of a book.
“Ah. Which do you, uh, recommend?”
“Depends on what you’re looking for.”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
Everyone gave various grunts and nods and said nothing. Misha realized he made a nihilistic point, and remembered that with hippies once a philosophical point is made the conversation is over, regardless of whether or not the point was relevant at all to the aforementioned conversation. Shrugging, he grabbed all the bottles.
A while later, Misha wasn’t quite sure how long, one of the hippies was hula-hooping. The rest of them, Misha included, were lying together, staring at the stars, talking over cigarettes.
“How you feeling, man?” a hippie asked Misha.
“Man, I don’t even have a word for this feeling,” Misha replied, taking a drag, “Language is so limiting, man, y’know?”
“I dig it,” a gravelly voiced girl added.
Misha could fit in well with hippies when he wanted to. After he was around the dialect for long enough, it seamlessly adapted into his speaking. Being heavily intoxicated helped. It worked for sassy black ladies, too.
Misha suddenly turned his head to the side and puked. No one seemed to notice.
The tall, bearded hippie was cracking up suddenly.
“What is it, Gary?”
“I’m hard as a fucking rock right now, dude!”
Everyone sat up at once.
“Hey, Rachel,” Someone said to the hula-hooper, “You still got any coke?”
“Yeah,” Rachel replied, staring into the sky as she continued to hula-hoop.
“We should do it off his dick!”
“Fuck yeah!” the group shouted in unison.
Somehow, Misha always expected that it would one day come down to doing coke off a guy’s erect cock. As he did the second line - it was a huge dick - he heard a conversation.
“It’s cold, man. We should leave.”
“There’s an apartment building around here I have a key card for. Dude, Clark, you got your truck?”
“Fuck yeah I do.”
-----
They were all sleeping together at the top of a carpeted staircase. One of the hippies had a large quilt in his hiking backpack. The hippies all were snoozing peacefully, but Misha was zooming at a million miles an hour. He had to leave, it was too quiet here.
He carefully slipped out of the blanket, and crawled over to Clark.
“Can I borrow your truck, man?” Misha whispered.
“Yeah, sure, dude,” Clark yawned, “The keys are in the backpack. Just have it back, like, uh, soon. By noon, or somethin’.”
“Thanks,” Misha whispered, and crawled to the backpack. Rustling through for the keys, he found an unopened bottleneck beer.
Score.
-----
It was five in the morning and Misha a mix of ketchup, vomit, come, and sweat in his hair, and all he could think about doing was driving way too fast. He drove the truck in one direction, knowing that eventually he'd reach empty, vast farmland, and he did. He found himself on a straight, dirt road, with no landmarks in sight. He turned onto the road and stopped, straightening his wheels. He rolled down the windows and turned on the CD player. The song White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane came on. Misha took a sip of his beer and placed it between his knees. He floored the acceleration and the truck lurched forward, the tall grass and lighting sky becoming a blur. He sang along to the song, though it was so loud he couldn't even hear himself.
"Go ask Alice! I think she'll know!" He took his left hand off the wheel, reaching it out the window and curling it into a fist. The beer was spilling all over his lap but he didn't notice. The cocaine was still surging through his bloodstream. All he could see now was the sun, peeking over the horizon. Misha realized that everyone was asleep right now. If he screamed no one would come to his aid. He was completely alone. The only person left on the island was him.
Today was a good day.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Misha Collins/OC (brief hookup)
A/N: Based off true stories, true stories combined with other true stories, and untrue stories. It's worth nothing that I wrote this drunk at four in the morning. It is also worth noting that I do not condone driving while intoxicated. Enjoy!
When Misha woke, he smiled. He remembered that as he lay awake in bed the night before, he couldn't wait to go to sleep, because when he woke up it would be today - his day out.
He rolled over and looked at the digital clock. 7:20 AM glowed in red. He sat up, swung his feet over the side of the bed, stood, and promptly got naked. On special days he ate breakfast nude on the porch, and today was a special day.
Misha ate cereal out of a plastic bowl, watching the dogwalkers stare horrified for a moment, and then pretend not to notice and walk faster. He took a cell phone photo of himself for Twitter; the first of many he planned for his day out. He liked to have photo narratives of his special days, like today. He double-checked to make sure his junk wasn't showing. Though his junk was very impressive, or so he'd been told, he didn't want to be reported.
The Man always censored him.
He chased those remaining rebel Froot Loops around the sides of the bowl, and drank the sugary milk, mixed with the vodka he'd poured in. He stood, and stretched for an exaggerated moment. As he walked back inside, he heard a wolf whistle, and then chanting.
“3.0! 3.0! 3.0!”
Misha wondered what scale that was on.
-----
Misha went to the museum when it opened at 10. They had the Body Worlds exhibit for an extended week, and Misha loved to see mutilated corpses in amusing poses.
He took a photo of himself giving a thumbs-up next to a corpse throwing a javelin, and got a stern warning from museum security. In retrospect, he thought, mentioning that, although it was not pertinent at the moment he was double-jointed, was a mistake. They let him stay, though, in exchange for a photo for the guard's presumably fangirl daughter.
They kicked him out after he lit a cigarette and started asking the children in a gravelly accent if they wanted to see a dead body. As he was escorted to the door, he realized this was the second fastest he'd ever been escorted out of a museum. He was sad that he didn't break his record of two minutes 18 seconds.
On the bright side, he'd managed to steal a dinosaur toy from the gift shop beforehand.
I'm a museum thief now. He thought with a smile.
-----
After searching for artifact burglar circuit applications online and coming up empty, Misha decided to take the bus to Village Inn for lunch. Perkin's was closer, but he was a classy fellow, and only hoodlums went to Perkin's.
The waiter didn't respond to his homosexual advances, so Misha had to find another way to get out of the bill. He didn't feel like paying. Usually grabbing genitalia and winking worked so well. He got an iPhone out of it last time.
After he ate his wonderful pancakes, Misha began picking the ice out of his empty Sprite and throwing it at people. He'd made two dunks into elderly women's cleavage when they asked him to leave. Once outside, he booked it, before they remembered that he hadn't paid.
-----
It was finally noon, so Misha went to his favorite bar; where, in fact, no one knows your name. That was how he preferred it. A bar where everyone knows you sounded intimidating to him.
Another good thing about this bar was that it was full of people looking for anonymous sex and debauchery. Within 15 minutes, Misha was giving an illegal Ecuadorian immigrant a blowjob in the bathroom.
Okay, 20 minutes.
As everyone does with oral sex, he expected the guy to eventually get hard and then they’d go to town. Unfortunately, the illegal - Jorge, Misha thought it was - didn’t seem to understand the concept of the light touch to the head or shoulder area, indicating that it was time. Jorge came just as Misha took his lips off the head. It gushed, with Misha at a close angle. He touched the side of his hair and felt come. He didn’t care too much at the moment, and gave the guy a handjob to make up for it.
Once he was actually hard, and Misha paid attention this time, he grabbed Jorge by the shoulders and whipped him around, so Misha’s back was to the wall. He shoved himself on Jorge’s cock, planted his legs the other side of the stall, and tried to remember how to say “thrust” in Spanish.
Thankfully, Jorge caught on, and Misha’s back was rubbing against the cool ceramic. Or whatever that material is that bathroom stalls are made of.
Wood? It’s too smooth for wood. Maybe they put some kind of coating on it. Metal, possibly, but it seems too solid. Plastic could be involved here.
Jorge was saying something in Spanish, but Misha didn’t really pay attention. He was more focused on the lovely way Jorge’s cock was hitting his prostate. Actually, he wasn’t quite sure if he actually spoke English anymore. Being full of Ecuadorian cock would do that to you, he figured.
Perhaps, he thought, I know Spanish now.
Just as Misha came, he exclaimed, “Taco!”
Nah, I don’t.
Jorge made quick work of his own situation, and they got dressed awkwardly. As they exited the bathroom, Misha gave a nod of goodbye, and began to turn. However, at that moment, Jorge said in a thick accent,
“Come with me.”
Misha shrugged, and did.
-----
Jorge - still wasn’t sure that was actually his name - led Misha to a hookah bar a few blocks away. They walked through the door and were met by a cloud of smoke. As they ventured further, Misha was unable to actually see anything other than shadowy forms sitting close together on various deep purple couches.
Jorge led Misha past the counter, nodding at the cashier, and through clinking beads in the doorway. Misha couldn’t help but to stop and paw them like a cat. After a few moments, Jorge grabbed Misha’s arm again, though Misha clung to a few strands that slipped through his fingers.
They sat on a couch with, presumably, the owners; that is, if the thick smell of a certain illegal plant was anything to go by. Jorge spoke to them in Spanish, and the other three men nodded and smiled. Apparently, Misha was accepted now.
They began sprinkling a large bud on the aluminum foil at the top of a hookah. Misha didn’t know a lot about marijuana, but damn if he wasn’t gonna pretend to.
I must use most - nay, all - of my knowledge of Seth Rogen films to get out of this one.
“Oh, uh, what kind is that?” he said, pointing weakly.
Jorge smiled at him with yellowing teeth and said, “Woah,”
“I…don’t think I’ve heard of that, um, kind. Is it, uh, a hybrid of, er…pineapple express, or something?”
The men glanced at each other and exchanged smiles. The one sitting next to Jorge leaned forward and repeated, “Woah,”
Two and a half bowls later, Misha had successfully nicknamed all the employees.
“You are, uh, a, um…” Reebok said, glancing at the table as if it would reveal the word he was thinking of to him.
“A lightweight,” Texas finished.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I would kill for some fries.” Misha said, melting into this really, really comfy couch.
Reebok, Texas, James K Polk, and Jorge all stared at him.
“No, seriously,” Misha said, lighting a cigarette from what he assumed was the communal pack, “I would take the life of an innocent man for fries. And ketchup! I looove ketchup. Hell, I’d kill the man’s wife for ketchup.”
Misha didn’t quite know how the fries appeared out of nowhere.
“Dude!” he said, taking a drag, “Where did those come from?!”
“We got them an hour ago,” James K Polk said, emphasizing the H, “From McDonald’s!”
“Seriously? It’s been an hour?”
“Please do not kill us sir.” Texas said.
Misha poured ketchup from a packet into the cardboard container bearing that comfortably familiar M, but didn’t quite know where his other hand had gotten off to.
“That’s alright, I don’t need you, right hand!” Misha declared, “I’m through with your betrayal!” With that, he poured the fries onto his face. Some of them got in, but not many.
“Damnit, Righty! Why hast thou crippled me so?”
Jorge took Misha’s hand and began to lead him, again through the main area.
“Righty, you’ve been in cahoots with Jorge all along! I knew it! You foul bedhopping whorefrog!”
Suddenly Misha was outside, and the door was closed.
----
Misha found out it was nine PM after a while of wandering, looking for some kind of bar. Or just, anywhere that served alcohol.
It turned out to be a nightclub.
He walked in, through hordes of people far more well-dressed than he, and tried to make his way through more hordes of people, but these hordes were gyrating. Misha tracked down the bar and ordered a straight Jack Daniels. He sat on a low couch before a light-up coffee table, and stared at the people grinding in the corner.
In my day we would have called that rape.
“You look like you’ve had some fun,” Misha suddenly heard. He turned, to a well-dressed man, save for the Corona beanie, sitting next to him.
“You could say that,” Misha replied, quirking a grin.
“You get high, man?”
“Oh yeah. I actually smoked some dank Woah earlier.”
“Woah?”
“Yeah,”
“Never even heard of it,” the man laughed, “But I’m sure it’s well-named. Come with me.”
Going with strangers had worked out well for him today, so Misha agreed, finishing the last of his drink. The man led him up several sets of stairs, to the roof of the club. Misha could see a faint sign in the distance reading, in neon, “Jonas Brothers Furs.” He had to laugh at that one.
The man led Misha to a group of people, sitting cross-legged together in a circle.
“This is my friend,” The man said, “He’s cool.”
The people collectively nodded, and turned back to what they were doing. Misha joined the circle, next to the man. All of them were wearing various combinations of hemp and brown leather and dreadlocks and dirtied bare feet and long flowing skirts and tribal beads and Buddhist tattoos. Misha felt at ease; he enjoyed the company of legitimate hippies like these. Not the Urban Outfitters hippies, the kind of hippies that are so baked all the time they don’t even notice how itchy their hemp pants are.
The hippies had four orange prescription bottles in the center of the circle, and each was crushing the pills with the side of their lighters, or swallowing handfuls with the sip of a red plastic cup, or staring wide-pupiled into the distance.
“What do you got?” Misha asked.
“Adderral, Vicodin, Xanax, and OxyContin,” One of them said as he snorted a line off the back of a book.
“Ah. Which do you, uh, recommend?”
“Depends on what you’re looking for.”
“I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
Everyone gave various grunts and nods and said nothing. Misha realized he made a nihilistic point, and remembered that with hippies once a philosophical point is made the conversation is over, regardless of whether or not the point was relevant at all to the aforementioned conversation. Shrugging, he grabbed all the bottles.
A while later, Misha wasn’t quite sure how long, one of the hippies was hula-hooping. The rest of them, Misha included, were lying together, staring at the stars, talking over cigarettes.
“How you feeling, man?” a hippie asked Misha.
“Man, I don’t even have a word for this feeling,” Misha replied, taking a drag, “Language is so limiting, man, y’know?”
“I dig it,” a gravelly voiced girl added.
Misha could fit in well with hippies when he wanted to. After he was around the dialect for long enough, it seamlessly adapted into his speaking. Being heavily intoxicated helped. It worked for sassy black ladies, too.
Misha suddenly turned his head to the side and puked. No one seemed to notice.
The tall, bearded hippie was cracking up suddenly.
“What is it, Gary?”
“I’m hard as a fucking rock right now, dude!”
Everyone sat up at once.
“Hey, Rachel,” Someone said to the hula-hooper, “You still got any coke?”
“Yeah,” Rachel replied, staring into the sky as she continued to hula-hoop.
“We should do it off his dick!”
“Fuck yeah!” the group shouted in unison.
Somehow, Misha always expected that it would one day come down to doing coke off a guy’s erect cock. As he did the second line - it was a huge dick - he heard a conversation.
“It’s cold, man. We should leave.”
“There’s an apartment building around here I have a key card for. Dude, Clark, you got your truck?”
“Fuck yeah I do.”
-----
They were all sleeping together at the top of a carpeted staircase. One of the hippies had a large quilt in his hiking backpack. The hippies all were snoozing peacefully, but Misha was zooming at a million miles an hour. He had to leave, it was too quiet here.
He carefully slipped out of the blanket, and crawled over to Clark.
“Can I borrow your truck, man?” Misha whispered.
“Yeah, sure, dude,” Clark yawned, “The keys are in the backpack. Just have it back, like, uh, soon. By noon, or somethin’.”
“Thanks,” Misha whispered, and crawled to the backpack. Rustling through for the keys, he found an unopened bottleneck beer.
Score.
-----
It was five in the morning and Misha a mix of ketchup, vomit, come, and sweat in his hair, and all he could think about doing was driving way too fast. He drove the truck in one direction, knowing that eventually he'd reach empty, vast farmland, and he did. He found himself on a straight, dirt road, with no landmarks in sight. He turned onto the road and stopped, straightening his wheels. He rolled down the windows and turned on the CD player. The song White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane came on. Misha took a sip of his beer and placed it between his knees. He floored the acceleration and the truck lurched forward, the tall grass and lighting sky becoming a blur. He sang along to the song, though it was so loud he couldn't even hear himself.
"Go ask Alice! I think she'll know!" He took his left hand off the wheel, reaching it out the window and curling it into a fist. The beer was spilling all over his lap but he didn't notice. The cocaine was still surging through his bloodstream. All he could see now was the sun, peeking over the horizon. Misha realized that everyone was asleep right now. If he screamed no one would come to his aid. He was completely alone. The only person left on the island was him.
Today was a good day.