Snippet #1517939

Eliot awoke at the sound of the usual pop-tune alarm. He resisted the urge to smash the alarm clock or change the tune yet again. The man was hangover-free, despite consuming enough alcohol to poison a normal person his size. He sighed, and watched as a plume of smoke exited his lips, a cough following suit. His chest hurt. Eliot shed the shirt and jeans from last night which he had neglected to remove before falling asleep. An entire night, smoke-free, had been his. Testing his limits, the smoke-exhaling super attempted to force another bout of vomiting from the lungs into the toilet. A trickle of purple liquid dripped down. That was his poison, in liquid form, it seemed. Intriguing. Either way, he kept on blowing noxious fumes as he breathed, so he gave up for now. He glanced into the mirror again. Despite shaving last night, Eliot had already grown a shadow. He considered actually growing out a beard. No, he looked worse than usual with a full-blown beard. He would shave. But not now.

Eliot grabbed his usual belongings; wallet, knife, gun, the usual. Next, he threw on a pair of jeans and a black MortixCorp T-shirt. Decades ago, it might have been Nike or Aeropostle or even Mountain Dew, but MortixCorp, being a corporation as the name might suggest, had complete dominance on just about all goods, and only lacked a monopoly on those few products it chose to lack. Even so, some of the others probably didn't like him supporting MortixCorp financially, as if he had much of a choice. McDonalds had become McMortix and PopTarts had become MortixTarts. Speaking of MortixTarts, the fat man grabbed one for breakfast on the way out of the door. Eliot drove to the warehouse, parked, and walked inside.

"Hey, all," he greeted in a little plume of dark gas. The lucky bastard, asleep on the couch, already had a stack of bills in his hand. Eliot simply added to the pile, repaying his debt. Next he took two coins, placing one on each of the sleeping man's eyes. Next he got a good look at Alan, and a grin cracked across his face. Unable to resist taunting him, Eliot came up and ruffled his newly-shortened hair so that it stuck up in every direction. "I never thought I'd see the day," he commented, "Your hair might even be shorter than mine!"

Next, Eliot smelled breakfast, followed by a look at its chef. His reaction to Charlie's new hair was different than his reaction to Alan's, to say the least. "Oh, I feel sort of guilty, now," he admitted, "Greg really took my complaint to heart." Eliot's smile faded, "Well, it's for the better, and you look fine, albeit a little less..." Don't say exotic, he thought. "...colorful," he finished. Great save, brain, he thought sarcastically.

"Is that ham and eggs I smell?" he asked. To be honest, MortixTarts didn't taste much better than his smoke, and the taste was more persistent.