Morning Chores

Sweet shit. "Ohhhphh, fuck me and fuck the sonofabitch who makes Johnny Walker." Grobbler's world begins to phase in, coming in slow waves of awareness amidst astounding pain.

Burying his head as deep as possible into the ratty blankets, he skitters like some blind mole. His ass-end sticks in the air as his arms feebly collect stray corners of blanket to pile on top of his throbbing skull.

As his overworked liver heroically purges the poison from his body, Grobbler is privy to a series of revelations that come with the resumption of his higher brain functions.

I am still wearing my clothing from yesterday.
Tearing up my bedding was an idiotic idea considering this appears to be rock underneath.
I have a mouthful of lint.
The reason I should have changed was because I am pretty sure I threw up a little last night.

Suddenly aware of the urgency of excising himself from his befouled sleeping arrangement, Grobbler puts forth titanic effort to raise his shuddering form onto his haunches. He is subsequently paralyzed for nearly four full minutes by an onset of nausea and agony.

This sad process continues for another half hour before Grobbler can stand with his eyes open.

The dark volume of room is familiar... ah yes, the cave. Because I live in a goddamned cave now, he reminds himself cavalierly before stumbling towards the room's only source of light. The heavy door is made from two layers of plywood and secured by a haphazard mechanism built of mangled rebar. Practically by instinct, his long sharp fingers wrap around the iron and he unfastens the door. The small cave is flooded with light the moment Grobbler swings it open, the brightness of which stuns him for a further minute and a half.

The intoxicating flavour of the Hedge surges in, and Grobbler finds strength in it. His nostrils flare as his chest heaves, taking in freshness and expelling yesterday's disappointment.

Now where the hell did I put that ax?

Grobbler doesn't ask why the minifridge runs. It was a trick that Moren had figured out a while ago. You would find this weird tuber from the hedge, you could tell because of its weird bluish color and dim internal glow. It wasn't always easy to pick, the plant tended to have these nasty thorned tentacles above-ground.

But if you got your hands on one, and jammed the electric plug into it, the appliance would run for nearly a month. Really it was the only nice thing about his home, he thought as he pulled out some deli meat and the last segment of a strange fruit. Hesitating, he grabs the last beer too. Cervasa, spectacularly terrible.

Most of his clothing and the bedsheets have been thrown over into the corner, and he ambles outside with one fistful of a citrus hamchillada (patent pending, he jokes to himself) and the other with drink.

He checks the bounds of his fence, pleased that no irreparable damage has been done last night by the Hedge's predators. He finishes his breakfast and unsticks his rusty old ax from a cord of thornwood.

To Do:
Clear underbrush.
Hop back over to Sacramento to take a bath in the river and do some laundry.
Restock fridge.

Quick Breakfast...
endscene