BigSaltyDog

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...