It was a goddamned, god-awful night; followed by an even worse, goddamned god-awful morning.

Morgantown, West Virginia. A shit-hole college town in West Virginia, not far past the Pennsylvania border. My brother had been going to West Virginia University for some time now. He probably should have graduated long ago, but lack of motivation, chronic laziness (which I would inevitably inherit, for it is in my genes), and alcoholism has kept him from doing so.

It was around 3 p.m. on a Thursday when my brother stormed into my dwelling ranting about going to his apartment in Morgantown. There was kind of a glazed maddened look in his eyes. Something told me I shouldn't miss this. By 5 p.m. we were there. 290 Falling Run Road in Morgantown West Virginia.

If the God rested on the 7th day, then this is where he let loose his bowels.

By 5:15 p.m on a Thursday. My brother (we'll call him Vinny), our skinhead pal Max, and myself had purchased one 30 pack of Milwaukee's Best Beer. Known far and wide as The Beast.

By 6 p.m. it was finished. Disgusting. How could it happen? 10 beers is no big deal, but with no food in the gut and it being 95 degrees outside, I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel it a bit.

With a strong buzz and a rapist wit. Searching for a party. Released to the wild that is West Virginia. We wailed for blood.

Vinny, believe it or not, in his 4 years at WVU had actually gained some friends. The type of people that should have probably been aborted. A certain specie of mutant that should never be allowed to reproduce. Nice people. Good Ol' Boys. Punk rockers from a lost generation. The dirty, unwanted, misled, unseen, and outcast. A dying breed that won't be missed by the general population and Joe Public.

I had a blast.

Along the way we bought another 30 pack of beast. Now me, I like spending some money and buying good beer. Vinny, he thinks this rotgut sewage is good beer, in fact he gets ill if he drinks something that cost more than 10 dollars a case. Incredible. Why? I asked myself as I finished my 15th beer. I was surrounded by squatters, drunks, and drug addicts. I could smell the brutes from the down the hall of this dilapidated house that would no doubt be fire marshaled within a month.

Then something strange happened. A familiar song played on the cd player. For the past 2 hours or so I was subjected to listening to screaming hardcore and various punk rock tunes. I love the music, but what came next brought a tear of joy to my eye. Yes, they were playing Creedence. The voice of Vietnam. CCR is a personal favorite of mine. From "Proud Mary" to "Bad Moon Rising", I was in sweet bliss of heaven. This was proper. A soundtrack for West Virginia drunken good ol' boys.

Then I vomited.

The beer came out first. Since I had nothing else in my stomach, a neon green bile stomach acid shot out like a projectile missile of pure human waste. It was a vile mess that stank of feces.

A smell of victory.

I love puking.

After several hours of chaos that I couldn't even begin to remember. Just fuzzy memories. Violence, belligerence, loud music, weird dancing, heavy drinking, and the breaking of glass. This I recall. How I ended up in the road amidst the broken bottles I do not. As I got to my knees I felt a sharp pain and an instant blast of color filled my brain.

I had just been sucker punched. Hard. In the face.

Anger swelled within me. I got up in a fit of rage and threw some blind fists. None connecting with anything. I opened my eyes to see my brother laughing. That pig fucker was responsible for the colors and the now forming goose egg on my face.

But before I could attack, we were both distracted by screaming. More accurately, the screaming of our skinhead friend Max. He was walking down the street in a drunken stupor yelling into an open bar at the top of his lungs. Something along the lines of, MOTHER FUCKERS! FUCK YOU FAG FUCK COCKSUCKERS! arrrgh.

Fuck. This is all I need. I'm blitzed out of my brain. And now this asshole is going to have a bar of angry drunken jocks emptied on me.

Then someone came out, as Max was a half block away rambling on. FUCK YOU! COME BACK HERE! the man said.

Here we go I thought.

Then I got a look at him. He was about 5 foot 9 150 lbs. of pure birkenstock wearing hippy.

He wasn't expecting a reply, but he got one. Max turned around and sprinted back to him.

Luckily Vincent and myself intercepted the prick. Again, this hippy would be slaughtered, but who knows what other kind of the people the bar held. After all this was West Virginia. These mountain folk don't take kindly to strangers screaming at them. Especially throwing around the word "fag". Some of these boys were redneck homophobes, that get their kicks from city folks and their purty mouths I'm sure.

All I could think of was the movie "Deliverance".

Luckily, the man apologized and that was the end of it. Regardless we still fled quickly away, the the confines of Falling Run Road. Shelter, safety, drunken freaks.

Blackouts ensued.

I woke up with the worst head ache of my life.

The thing about Morgantown is, it's a great place to party, and fun at night; but when you wake up the next day , you feel like you died and went to hell.

I was ready to hit the road at 11 a.m. But not a force on Earth could awake Vinny or Max for that matter. They were in comas, and would remain so until at least 2 p.m.

Fuck.

I looked for something to read to kill time. The only things my brother kept to read were porno catalogues. Not even actual porn. Just magazines that sold merchandise to perverts all over this great free land. Perverts like me.