The distinctive stench of vomit brought Buck Wilmington fully awake - that and the angry, strident voice yelling his name. His head pounded unmercifully, his eyes hurt too much to open and hair had evidently grown on his tongue making it impossible to speak.
"Wilmington!"
Through the slits of his eyes, Buck could just barely make out the angry visage of Chris Larabee. "Oh, fuck," he said under his breath.
"Oh, fuck's right, you dumb son of a bitch," Chris spat out.
A jail attendant stood next to the ATF Special Agent in Charge and snorted derisively as he handed him a clipboard. Larabee signed the release papers, yanked off one copy for himself and shoved the clipboard and pen back into the young officer's hands while the now former detainee sat up with a groan.
Buck's hands shook uncontrollably and his head spun dizzyingly but he got to his feet anyway. Still pretty much drunk from the night before, he figured his ass chewing would be tolerable if not outright entertaining but first he needed to piss like the proverbial racehorse.
"Where's the head?" he managed to croak out in a strangely congested and nasally voice and it suddenly dawned on him just how hard it was to breathe. Lifting trembling hands to his nose, he felt cotton packing, not unlike the ends of two tampons, jammed up both nostrils, then asked, "What the fuck?" He walked slowly into the men's room, bellied up to a urinal and let go a steady, blood tinged, stream while Chris leaned against the wall next to the paper towel holder; his arms folded and watched him like a hawk. He then walked up to the sink, turned on the faucet, spit into the sink and splashed cold water into his face. Straightening up he took a good look the mirror. Soaking a paper towel and tried to wipe away some of the dried blood from his mouth. His jaw hurt like holy hell while his lip still oozed a little blood.
He then looked down at his hands, his knuckles purple and swollen, and queried, "You should see the other guy?"
"Not a scratch on 'em," Chris replied tersely.
"Them? What in the hell happened?" Buck asked then immediately rued his decision as Chris began to read a litany of six different charges, all of them subsequently dropped, plus a grand total of the damages due the restaurant, which Buck would have to pay.
A little past midnight some members of a local biker gang had stopped in for drinks and had subsequently played few games of 'clock the obnoxious, loud mouthed drunk'. The bartender had probably saved Buck's life, and what was left of his bar, by calling the cops.
Chris watched as Buck just stared at his visage blinking a couple of times and said, "It might have been easier all around if you'd just stuck your Colt in you mouth, Buck."
Buck just closed his eyes and wondered if Chris had any idea just how close he'd come.
"You wanna tell me about it?" his boss asked.
"Nope," the ladies' man replied pulling the 'tampons' from his nose and his eyes, now ringed like a raccoon's, watered from the intense pain. Chris handed him another paper towel and, as he held it to his face, he was able to dry his very real tears before anyone saw them.
God, he felt terrible, looked worse and, for the kicker, he would have to go to work and face everyone, including his ex-wife. A mid-week bender was not an acceptable excuse for missing work. It was one of those unspoken macho things by which the seven of them lived or died. No matter how "ill" you were, the next day you would drag ass into work or forever be known as a pussy. Buck just hoped Chris would at least take him by his place so he could shower and change his clothes.
Chris agreed and the ride to his home was unbearable, the silence between the two of them deafening. Never at a loss for words Buck sat silently, his head back and his eyes closed. He had nothing to say really and even if he had, he was too far out to sea to make himself be heard. He no longer had control of his life and, as long as Carrie was there, his emotions.
"The others will understand if you don't come in," Chris offered the easy out but he, himself, didn't understand it at all. His partner was a happy drunk who usually spent all of his free bar time chasing women, not picking fights he couldn't win. This was a Buck Wilmington he'd never seen before and it bothered him greatly. His bruised and battered colleague just snorted and told him, "I'll be right out."
Buck showered until the water ran cold, shaved without inflicting any more damage to his battered face and dressed gingerly, trying not to touch any the bruises that now tattooed his body, all the while making a mental note to have the "KICK MY ASS, PLEASE" sign removed from his forehead. He would have relished the opportunity to take some perverse revenge on the perpetrators but he couldn't remember anything about the past night...except what had brought it on.