Yeah, I'm pretty sure it still is

It was early in the morning in Paris, France, and the light filtered in through to curtains onto the bed containing a vixen and a raccoon. The vixen opened her eyes and slowly pulled herself from her husband's embrace, rolling to the side of the bed to get a better view of her room. She glanced across the expensive satin sheets towards the mini bar, home entertainment system, and the network of tubes running across the ceiling, housing thousands of tiny flickering lights. And it was all paid for buy her husband's job. She looked over at him once more and slipped out of bed, heading across the zebra patterned carpet for the bathroom.

This vixen's name is Martha and her husband's is Vince, they have absolutely nothing to do with this story.

"Good morning Paris, this is Jon Bastrab, on your number one station for classic rock, T-RAL, The Rail!"

"Fuck," Carmelita mumbled as she began smashing her fist in the general direction of the alarm, using the other hand to try to push her hair somewhere else besides her eyes. Finally succeeding in that task, she noticed that the sun was blasting full force through the holes in her curtains. Quickly moving her arm to cover her eyes, she discovered that a bottle of vodka had been perched precariously against her arm. And now, it was spilling the precious lifeblood directly onto her tail. She groaned and began grasping for it, when the hangover hit and she decided that she needed a shower anyway.

"We're kickin' off the morning with Guns and Roses today folks, here's 'Paradise City'." The radio announced, before starting into the song. Carmelita smiled for a moment; at least they weren't playing 'Welcome to the Jungle' again. The smile faded fast when her hangover reminded her that guns and roses was not only loud, but they also had a drummer. Finally pulling herself up to a sitting position did nothing for her hangover, but she saw it as a start towards actually getting up and going to work today. She swung her feet off the bed and began using them to grope around for something to shove them into.

"Oh, right," she muttered when she remembered that she had accidentally set her slippers on fire three weeks prior. She pulled herself to a standing position and began walking to the bathroom door, trying to pull off the pajamas she had puked on, fallen asleep in, and likely puked on a few more times before she woke up. Finally reaching the door, she pulled it open and immediately regretted it. The heat hit her first, carrying with it the smell that could only come from vomiting in and proceeding to use the toilet, then closing the door and leaving the space heater on all night. She held her breath and flushed the vile concoction, spraying every 'fresh scent' cleaning product she could get her hands on. The smell was still there, but it was at least bearable enough to take a shower around. A shower she would get halfway through only to realize that she had no clean clothes left, which would ultimately leave her feeling just as dirty as when she got in. After the shower and the full-hour attempt to dry her fur, she finally decided to just throw on what she wore yesterday.

(Oh those bitches on the first floor are going to eat this up.)

After lacing up her boots and attempting to tame her hair, Carmelita opened the door to the rest of her apartment, knowing that she would see a mess and possibly a small fire, praying that it would be something she could clean up in time for work. What she saw shocked her. The main area was spotless, as in someone had came in and cleaned the entire place. Her gaze fell on the front door and she noticed it was slightly ajar, and the realization that there was someone else in her house caused her to draw her shock pistol, more out of instinct than anything else. She heard sounds coming from the kitchen; she guessed that was where the intruder was. Sliding against the wall, she made her way slowly to the entryway to the kitchen, hoping that whoever it was wasn't armed.

"Carmelita, where the hell do you keep your Dr. Pepper? Cus it ain't in the fridge." Came a voice from behind her, causing her to jump.

"Jesus!"

"You can also call me Jason, or Mr. Ollos if you prefer," Jason said with a wide grin, Carmelita had guessed that he had wanted to use that line for quite a while now. "Now, I'm serious, I can't find any Dr. Pepper, only shitty Coke."

"But I like Coke," she stammered, a sounding a bit shaken for her liking "and how the hell did you get into my apartment?

"You drink that shit?" Jason shouted "I use it to get rid of tile grout and you actually bathe your insides in it?"

"You, in my apartment, how?" she persisted.

"Eh, the door was open," He returned, staring at a bottle of Coke in much the same way someone would look at road kill "I figured you were already up, or just forgot. You're lucky your T.V. is still there, in this neighborhood."