Johnny Silverhand
•|The morning after a booze binge
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It was not uncommon to see Johnny drunk. The rocker's life was fun, Silverhand used it to the fullest, and heavy drugs and alcohol were in abundance.
But it all had an unpleasant side effect in the form of hangovers and withdrawals. It was 2077, a cure for cancer had been found, and still, the magic pill for a headache after a good drink didn't exist. Johnny had gotten used to it long ago, but there were times when he had overdone it and his head was literally cracking. Then he'd become either fucking sarcastic or, on the contrary, quiet. Mostly the former.
Yesterday, Johnny had fun in the Postmortem, and you dragged him home. When he waved off your helping hand and tried to waddle to the bed on his own, he crashed into the nightstand and fell to his knees beside the bed. That's how instantly he fell asleep. Sitting on the floor, resting his head and his famous arm on the mattress. Then you sighed, just leaving the room. You didn't have the slightest desire to put him on the bed, considering that you were also drunk that night.
When you came in the morning, the only significant addition was a puddle of vomit by the bed. Silverhand woke up somewhere in the middle of the night, dragged himself up onto the mattress, and was now lying on the edge with his legs dangling off the bed. His hair was sticky and in urgent need of a wash.
You sat down on the edge of a bed and stared at Johnny's sleeping body, not knowing whether to wake him. But then, on a vague impulse, you ran a hand through his greasy hair, working it through and even untangling it a little. Almost immediately, Johnny stirred, and a disgruntled grunt was heard.
«Looking for fleas? Don't get your hopes up, I'm not that messed up yet.»
He sat down on the bed, sleepy and therefore not yet at the peak of his sarcasm. Immediately upon awakening, he felt all the delights of last night, but he didn't ask for a pill; he only partially wiped away the vomit that had dried in his beard.