Snippet #1817400

The word of the day for Richard Rayberg appeared to be leaning towards "hangover".

Rick had been on the tour bus for the better part of a day, and unlike his band-mates (he thought, anyways), he was enthused about getting to ride the aluminum beast between cities. He had rode many buses in his time; inter-city and long-distance, Greyhound and public transit, old and new, but the tour bus never failed to amaze him. The fact that he could settle into a cushy seat with a bottle of Drambuie and watch the daily news was just astounding to the country bumpkin, whose only exposure to modern technology was the flippy-top cell phone. No, Topock's golden boy loved bus rides; and now, it seemed, tour buses especially. Although he was told that he needed to settle down and, to some extent, had, the traveling man within him reveled in being on the open road again, traveling from town to town. In a way, it was much like his younger days; only with less dust and more people at the concerts. And a lot more aggressive fan response. Many a bar fight had unfolded, especially during a particular rendition of Man of Constant Sorrow in Waco about, oh, seven years back, but some of these Legionnaires, as they liked to call themselves, were capable of getting absolutely psychotic. One had thrown himself off of the light rigging into the crowd; another tried to light a man on fire by spitting burning Yuengling on him in the crowd. Hell, one concert had to be canceled mid-song because the crowd had gotten into a full-blown riot. Rick was impressed, and maybe a little intimidated.

But back to the bus ride. As soon as they rolled into town, Rick was the first one off the bus, dust rising from his boots like the days of old (he never cleaned them, so it was, in fact, dust from the days of old), heading for the nearest bar. But that bar turned out to be a nightclub - and a shitty one at that - and since the others were headed to other places, Rick decided not to bother. He hated nightclubs anyhow. He spent the duration of that first night running up and down every street in that town, getting howling drunk and raising hell like he did in days long gone, and maybe shouting a verse or two of Diamond Dogs into a high class restaurant before being chased off by angry restauranteurs, but apples and oranges. Once he eventually made his way back to the hotel, he stumbled past the front desk, tripped up the stairs, slid into his room and passed out in bed...

Only to wake up four hours later, when his wake-up call came. "FUCK," Rick shouted in a voice that could be heard through walls and all down the wing, "I'M STILL DRUNK." Except he wasn't. While his roaring drunk-ness had faded now to a slight buzz, it was Hangover Time now. His head busting at the seams, Rick pulled his boots and a grungy flannel shirt on - they'd been kind enough to stack the luggage in his room while he was out - and headed down to the hotel bar. He did a quick headcount and discovered five faces - four from that other band they were playing with and Vivian. Airing on the side of sticking with those whom he knew fairly well, he plopped himself slowly onto the barstool next to Vivian. "Seven Crown on the rocks, and keep them rolling," he grunted, determined to kill his hangover by... Getting more hung over. He turned his head slightly towards Vivian, careful not to move too quickly lest he feel like his brain was going to slosh out through his ears. "An' I was surprised to not see you yesterday. Good morning," he rumbled in his baritone voice, attempting a smile but really looking like someone had just kicked him in the shins with steel-capped boots.