You wake up on a couch in Everett's Place, nauseous and filthy. Scattered visions from last night float into your mind one by one: throwing the microphone stand at the audience, drinking the yucky stuff Bertrand always gives you in the lounge, just barely being able to keep the voice in tune during the gig, and several other embarrassing incidents. You also remember making Shelly cry. You wonder why and how.
You should go home and get some real sleep, and maybe pack the last few items that are left in your apartment so nothing will be left when you give the keys to the flat to the landlord.
28th place (out of 34) in the 3rd Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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