It wasn't even 5:00 in the morning and Elias was already having a bad day.
The fingertips of dawn sunlight were carefully beginning to reach around the heavy tarp he'd draped over the window, their cheery welcome settling in like a punch in the eye. Morning always came defiantly around here.
Elias groaned and buried his face in his pillow, accidentally dashing his forehead against the steel hammer of the Colt M1911 hidden within. The glut of last night's cheap beer and garlic-buttered delivery pizza sloshed in his stomach like an oil tanker in a seastorm, and now he could taste blood running down his face from the self-inflicted pistolwhip. He didn't move.
"Hey Eli," shouted a voice in the next room. Much too loudly, thought Eli.
"Shut up," said Eli.
"Hey Eli," called the voice again, oblivious, and Fritz stepped around the corner into the room.
"Get outta here," mumbled Eli. "I knew we shoulda got an apartment with doors. Doors with locks. Freaking economy studio. Can't you see I'm trying to sleep?" He pulled the comforter over his head.
Fritz pulled it back down again and threw it in a heap on the floor. His roommate was curled up in the fetal position, squinting grotesquely, shivering in his underwear on the bedsheets. The two exchanged profanities. "Get up," said Fritz. "We got a job to do."