Dreams fluttered through Dave's head, he couldn't tell what they are he'd lose them upon the foreclosure. But whatever it was, it caused him to mutter unintelligible ramble, mostly the cause of alcohol. After all, Dave was a self-professed alcoholic (professed by everyone else too), so it was no surprise the drink made him a little crazy.

Sure enough, the foreclosure came, albeit in a manner he wasn't accustomed to, nor did he find entirely desirable. What he knew was a foot as he saw it come away from his face, had just hammered him in the side of the head. He violently spat out a cigarette-butt as the foot impacted. "Alright...alright...I'm awake...fuckin'..." The rest was lost amongst mumble and mutter. He reached over and picked up his half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey brand whiskey, which he took a healthy (depending on one's perspective) swig of the liquid, ignoring the burn as it went down his throat to settle uncomfortably in the pits of his stomach.

He looked around, tired eyes in sockets scanning familiar surroundings that he couldn't remember all too well.
It was like that often, play, home, drink, fuck, sleep. If anything, he could thank who-ever and/or whatever for a simple life-style - as unhealthy as it was. He cleared his throat, swallowing back a gob-load of phlegm that had accumulated over-night. He stood up, taking another swig of his alcohol. He was definitely the least-dressed of the group, dressed in only a pair of cotton boxers and socks. "Ungh," he groaned as he stretched, taking a moment for the ensuing head-spin to waver and die before speaking, "What fuckin' time is it?" It was evident that he was agitated, being that he just took a foot in the face as a wake-up call and he was tired and cold. But he still had the drink, the drink made it all better...or so he liked to think.

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