The Brutal Hangover and Mr. Salty Dawg’s Jet

The Brutal Hangover and Mr. Salty Dawg’s Jet

The morning sun rose like a hammer smashing Large Lad’s skull. He woke up with his face stuck to the bar top, mouth dry as camel dung, tongue swollen, and eyes crusted shut with sweat and booze residue. His whole body felt like it had been tenderised with a sledgehammer and rolled down Table Mountain for good measure.

He tried to sit up but the world spun violently. His stomach gurgled a warning. He slumped back down with a low moan.

The bar was deserted, littered with crushed cans, empty bottles, and plastic cups. Sticky floors squelched under his sandals as he shifted. The air smelled of stale beer, sweat, and disappointment.

Suddenly, there was a deep, low whoosh outside, followed by a thunderous thud-thud-thud rattling the windows.

Large Lad’s headache flared like nuclear warfare. He slapped his palms over his ears, groaning. “What in the ever-loving f—”

Then the front doors swung open, letting in a blast of hot morning air, dust, and diesel fumes. In walked a man dressed head to toe in tailored tropical whites: crisp linen shirt unbuttoned halfway to reveal a broad tan chest, gold aviators perched on his chiseled nose, salt-and-pepper beard trimmed to perfection.

It was none other than Mr. Salty Dawg himself.

Behind him, parked on the dirt road just beyond the bar’s terrace, was his sleek silver private jet with gleaming blue stripes and the words “SALTY DAWG ONE” painted across the fuselage. Its engines idled lazily, blades spinning in the breeze as if taunting the peasants still nursing hangovers in mud huts.

“Ye Olde Large Lad!” Salty boomed in his gravelly baritone, spreading his arms wide. “I heard you were dying out here so I came to rescue you, brother.”

Large Lad lifted his head just enough to squint at him. “Salty… what… what time is it?”

“Time to get up, champ,” Salty grinned, snapping his fingers. Instantly, two gorgeous African stewardesses emerged behind him, both dressed in tailored navy jumpsuits hugging every curve. One carried a silver platter stacked with fluffy scrambled eggs, sausages, and crispy bacon. The other held an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne chilling beside a tall glass of orange juice.

Large Lad whimpered, clutching his gut. “I can’t… my stomach… my head…”

“Don’t be soft,” Salty chuckled, leaning down to clap him hard on the back. “You’re coming with me to Cape Town. Big party tonight. Millionaire’s yacht. Beautiful women everywhere. I need my wingman.”

Large Lad moaned again, tears prickling his eyes. He tried to stand but his legs buckled beneath his vast, sweaty bulk.

Salty shook his head in mock disappointment. “This is what happens when you let African rum beat you, Lad. Don’t worry. I’ve got a doctor onboard, some electrolytes, and a bed big enough for your fat ass to sleep it off.”

He gestured to his stewardesses, who flanked Large Lad on either side and hoisted him up with surprising ease. He stumbled between them, gut swaying like a waterbed, sweat dripping onto the dusty floor.

As they dragged him out into the blinding sun towards Salty Dawg One, the bartender emerged from behind the bar counter, wiping a mug with his ever-filthy rag. Ingrid stood beside him, hair tousled, lips red and swollen, wearing nothing but his oversized shirt.

“Leaving so soon, Large Lad?” the bartender called out, grinning. Ingrid gave a shy little wave, biting her lower lip.

Large Lad tried to wave back, but his arm just flopped uselessly against his thigh. Salty chuckled, slipping his shades back down as he led the way to the jet stairs.

“Don’t worry, lad. I’ll get you back in shape with some proper booze and class. Africa was just the starter. Now it’s time for the main course.”

And with that, Mr. Salty Dawg and Ye Olde Large Lad boarded the jet, engines roaring to life, kicking up a sandstorm around the bar as the bartender laughed and wrapped an arm around Ingrid’s tiny waist.

Because while Large Lad was leaving Africa broken and bloated, his adventures were far from over.

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