“I think I’m going to be—” Fritz, the doggen butler, presented him with a barf bag at exactly the right moment. A barf bag. A hospital-grade, bright-green barf bag. As Trez bent double and held the circular opening to his mouth, he thought a couple of things: 1) who the fuck went around with barf bags on the ready; 2) what the hell else was the male carrying in that penguin suit of his; and 3) why did it have to be bilious green? If you were going to make something for people to throw up in, why did you have to make the damn thing the color of pea soup? A cheery yellow, perhaps. A nice, tidy white. Although considering the shape his pants were in … When Trez finally straightened, that telltale anvil-sitting-on-one-half-of-his-head had started to kick in, and his thought patterns had begun to take on the convoluted weirdness that came along with his migraines. “Help me upstairs?” he mumbled to no one in particular.