He’d started classifying his hangovers in the Army. A class one might be annoying but not debilitating. He could function normally and it would usually disappear in an hour. The scale and degree of debility was directly proportional to the size of the indicator and at the nine or ten level could include vomiting, sweats, and any number of equally unattractive bodily functions. He groaned and tried to sit up. He failed. “On your feet, sunshine,” the burly cop said. “The judge says he’s not interested in party drunks this morning, so you’re free to go.” “Say, Barney, you wouldn’t have a little something to kill the grizzly bear that’s eating my brain, would you?” “Sure, but not what you’re thinking of. And don’t call me Barney unless you want to spend a month or two in the slammer. You’d be surprised how many drunks turn violent in the morning and attack an officer of the law.” The cop smiled when he said it, but the smile did not make it up to his eyes.
