Hannity woke up in a sweat, with a sharp stabbing pain in her left thigh. The feathers of the down comforter were sporadically sticking through its cover into something inflamed, not there the night before. With the patience and anxiety of someone who knows something is very wrong, she pulled down the bedding to reveal a polyp the size of a grapefruit, with multiple pinhead-sized holes oozing an off-green mess onto her candycane nightwear.
"Wh... what the fuck" she said to herself, now furiously ripping off the oversized bed throw. Her thoughts reeled... "what did I do last night?"
Hazy from the disorientation of having woken to physical pain and a hangover from what would be a lethal dose of red bhang injections if she weren't a seasoned professional, she remembered that she celebrated her 25th birthday last night at the Ciel Blanche with a strange mix of drug-punks and wage slaves she had become acquainted with over the past 3 years. In light of the festivities, she ruminated over the last thing that her boss, Charles Munsch, had said to her upon leaving her cubicle.