WHO: Seth Gecko and whoever's unlucky enough to run into him. WHAT: World's worst hangover. WHERE: Studio RATING: ... R? WARNINGS: Language, racism. STATUS: Completed
One thing Seth can say about Mexicans, the bastards sure know how to drink. He came to lying on his side on the sand, the butt of his .44 digging into his stomach through last night's beer- and sweat-soaked shirt. For a second he was sure that was what woke him up but it didn't take a goddamn genius to point out that the piercing sunlight and hungover throbbing in his head might've had something to do with it.
It was quiet as fuck, too, aside from the occasional whip of the wind and rustle of... fucking something moving around, rats maybe. Turning in a slow circle, Seth surveyed the area with narrowed eyes. He reached a hand to his waist, the comforting weight of the gun reassuring. "Hey!" Seth called out in Spanish, turning in the sandy lot. "Anybody here? Who the fuck leaves this kind of shit out all night?"