Revenge” was the last thought that raced through his mind as he bolted out of the bed and violently hopped his way to the bathroom. He dove face-first to the toilet bowl as the first of many eruptions made their way from his stomach to his open mouth.
He felt as if his socks could emerge from his mouth at any time. Beer was the primary liquid that lubricated the path for the taco truck food that rained into the bowl. Each heave was more painful and violent than the last. There were too many episodes to count and Seven ciphered that he was expelling far more than he had taken in. The sound of an American reaction to authentic Mexican cuisine awoke the sleeping Italian. Seven saw Joey D.’s head emerge through a crack in the doorway. His combover maintained its shape and structure even after a restless slumber.
“Yeah, I was kinda worried about that. You’ll feel better in a couple hours,” he said to Seven as he closed the bathroom door and returned to his bed.
Seven spent the next four hours with his face in a place that was never intended for a face. About two hours into the event his stomach ran out of contents but forgot to tell the rest of his body. He convulsed and dry heaved for another couple hours before falling asleep on the dirty, tiled bathroom floor.
Seven was awakened by his Mexican roommate pulling him by his one remaining foot. Goat managed to slide Seven across the floor far enough from the toilet so that he could approach and urinate without any danger of peeing on his friend. Goat and Joey managed to lift Seven’s floundering body off the tile floor and back into his bed. Seven’s eyes were open and reflected the anger and resentment that he felt towards the man and boy who were gently placing him on the mattress.
“How the hell are you guys not sick? I spent all night puking my guts out and you guys are fine. What the fuck?” he said.