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"What the fuck do you think you're doing, boy?" Charlie Gill, his manager, could shout like a sumbitch. Normally it made Hollis growl. Tonight it just made him laugh.
He watched his right boot go sailing across the little bunkroom of the bus, then his jeans. "What're you talkin' about, man?"
"I saw you on that fucking awards show, son. You were drunk as a skunk. You looked swollen on camera."
"Oh, fuck you, Charlie." The way his boxer briefs hung up on the hook on the back of the door made him laugh like a loon. "That show was a waste of fucking space. You shoulda never booked me. I mean, Christ..."
He tried to get up, staggered, and fell on the bed with a thud that rattled his brain.
"What? Hollis? You okay?"
"M'fine." He frowned down at his legs, telling them sternly to work. "I just needed to get through the night. I mean, what were you thinking? Fashion Forward, for Christ's sake. Am I a fashion icon? Fuck, no."
He was a fucking redneck who happened to look good in jeans and sing good old-fashioned rockabilly.
"I was thinking you could clean up your image," Charlie said. "After that arrest in Tampa..."
"Which came to nothing, as I was so not guilty." Scratching his belly, Hollis squinted at the ceiling, which was spinning slowly, but getting faster. "Damn, Sam."
"Name's Charlie ... you're in big trouble, boy."
"Uh-huh. Sure. Look, Charlie, I gotta go. I'm gonna go puke." He hung up the phone and tossed it off into the ether, needing quiet and either more JD or less ... maybe more.
In the end he decided just to stay where he was and sleep.
There should be no spinning involved in that.