<div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: franklin gothic demi;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">John Aaron: On the walk before Stormvalley High.</span></span></div><br/>A car hissing by awoke the teen in a start as his brown eyes opened to shrink as the late afternoon sun hit them. They then quickly closed as he rolled onto his side, feeling the solid cement beneath him. Where the hell was he? After rubbing at his eyelids, soothing them with his index finger and thumb, John opened them once again to squint at the sidewalk, the lush-green lawn, and the school just on the other side. His body was wracked with weakness as he dropped his head back upon the walk and tried to swallow down a burp that left his lips on flavors of vodka and mixers. That taste alone had him recall a few memories. The binging games he participated in. The pulsing memory of the music was thumping in his head in tune with his heartbeat. Oh yes, the party; football; and concubines (cheerleaders).<br/><br/>John rolled onto his back and felt a cool breeze hitting his abdomen. He raised his head to see his fly was spread open like a book to flaunt his plain-black boxer-briefs and the shapely bulge it obscured. Another memory flashed in his conscious: the soft, wet lips of one of the concubines on his dick and her tongue gliding along its length. He reached down to grasp the hem and raise it to peer past his dark hair at the faded, lollipop-red ring about his cock. Yep, it happened. He released his underpants with a snap before he rested his head back and stared up at the clouds. What the hell happened exactly? He could barely remember. There were faint images of not just one woman but several, and then he recalled being dumped onto the sidewalk from a car. The party had been short, and because he felt like shit, he could understand why. He had indulged too much.<br/><br/><em>God…</em>, he didn’t think he would ever use that as an expression, but the mortals were rubbing off on him.<br/><br/>The brunet zipped up his fly, buttoned his pants, and once again fastened his belt before he sat upwards, arching his legs so he could rest his elbows upon his knees while his palms gave comfort to his forehead. The folded papers that he was surprised he still had on him were pressing into his ass cheek as he reached a hand back to slide them free of his back pocket and unfold them before his eyes. It made him sick just to read it over and try to make sense of the instructions in his drunken state, but he needed to find out where he was staying. He read a few lines that indicated the large tower across the street, and sluggishly, he started over.<br/><br/><div align="center"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: franklin gothic demi;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">Meeting Student Coordinator Storm.</span></span></div><br/>John had been standing right outside the teenager’s office for three minutes—minutes that had passed on rather quickly to his lack of notice. He had zoned out and had only snapped out of his condition when he nearly swayed forward to have his head knock against the door. He caught himself, resting his hand upon the doorframe as he bowed his head and gave his face a few slaps.<br/><br/>“Come on, keep it together,” he told himself—more like—his mortal shell. He hadn’t been this hung over since his father’s last marriage, and Ambrosia was ten times the beverage any mortal would ever be able to brew. When he managed to collect himself, John lowered his hand and straightened his posture, raising his shoulders with military bearing before he rapped on the door.<br/><br/>When and if the dark-skinned girl would answer the door, she would find standing before her something she was perhaps unaccustomed to. Still garbed in his previous apparel, John was as white as a ghost from nausea. There were bags beneath his eyes and an odor of sex, alcohol, and perfume lingered about him like secondhand smoke. What he hadn’t noticed, however, was the drawings on his face. With a sharpie, there were black circles about his eyes and signatures all over his face with random phrases such as:<em>Shotsshotsshots!, Sex!, Penis!, Rachel was here!</em>And other ridiculous words. Pink blush was on his cheeks and smears of red lipstick on his lips. There was even a red line across his neck with drawings of blood dribbles going down his throat as though someone had slit it while he was sleeping.