"Fear and Loathing in Commoragh"

One eye opened a crack and took stock of the situation around me. Buncha snoring, mostly naked kin, not unexpected. Didn’t look like my living space, which was good, since it smelled like cleanup would be quite the task. Pretty sure the clothes dangling from the fan are mine, though. Lucky they wound up somewhere easy to find!

Oh, Khaine, my head hurts. Probably shouldn’t have taken Adrenalight for that fight. Then again, it was fun, easy to get hold of, and the side-effects weren’t much of a problem in the arena. Besides, the results of the suggestibility afterwards were often… entertaining. Poor life decisions thus rationalized, I groggily pawed around on my left thigh (numb as I was from the aftereffects of the various drugs) for the pouch that held all manner of delightful concoctions, one of which was sure to ease my aching skull.

“Hrnnngha?” The grunt came from somewhere underneath my shoulders. crap, that’s not my thigh. One to the left maybe? Ah, there we go, not as numb as I thought. And here’s the pouch- aaaand fan-frak-tastic. Empty. At least, empty of the trance-inducing narcotics I had been looking for. I’ve never tried taking a dose of Psychon for a hangover, but I doubt it would end well. Some charming piece of crap must have talked me into sharing my stash, given that if I had taken all of it myself, I would be waking up in a rejuvenation pod, not a pleasantly bloody pile of sleepy Eldar.

I tried to sit up, only to be stopped dead by something tugging at my scalp. Twisting my head around, I saw that the end my luxuriously (yet inconveniently) long hair was caught in the armor of some dead-asleep warrior. In this case, though, I felt obliged to thank the stuff, since, glory of glories, he’s got my half-full narcotic needle stuck in his arm!

I crawled over on all fours, eliciting a series of mixed grunts from those around and underneath me, and yanked the needle out of his limp arm, jamming it into my own and sighing as I depressed the plunger, sending a tingle of euphoria through my poor, dazed skull. I glanced down at the hair tangled through his armor, tugging to get it free.

Wait, is this tied on?!

Damn, it is. Looks like I got kinky* last night. Huh, this guy must have been pretty smooth. Should probably leave my contact.

*Translator's Note:

I flipped him over and found a spot on his chest mostly free of tattoos. As full as narcotics as he was, I don’t think he even noticed. I grabbed a knife from my hip and pursed my lips slightly while I went to work.

For those of you wondering why I had a knife handy when my pants (okay, red fiendleather panty-thing) were currently dangling from a ceiling fan: No proper Eldar would take off their weaponry just because they were having sex. Aside from being stupid, that would be terribly disrespectful to your partner- implying they weren’t cunning enough to try and kill you during coitus.

Anyway, I dug the tip of my knife through flesh, scarring a message, feeling the trickle of pain into my soul as I did so:

“Srry bout scars- c me outside the Pit? Ask 4 Taphemela, <3!”

And with that, I stood to make an exit.

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For context, and to explain this title, I wrote this after reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, which I really liked the style of. Prior to reading that book, my only experience with stream-of-consciousness writing had been Faulkner, which I was forced to read back in high school and loathed. (Seriously, screw Faulkner). I might continue this later

'We were doing 1375 down the webway, when the drugs because to take hold...