The Hair of the Dog That Bit You
an excerpt

Note: This is completely unedited. It's fully of spelling and grammar errors. It doesn't flow nicely. I apologize and hope it's interesting anyway.

This starts at Chapter 2 because I think the chapter is pretty self contained, working on its own (despite the cliffhangeriness of it).

Enjoy.

Chapter 2

Jonathan woke Ral up by licking his face; probably just making sure he wasn't dead. Friends had told Ral that he sometimes stopped breathing during an alcohol-induced slumber.
He patted Jonathan's head and opened his eyes. The light was painful. The clock said it was almost two o'clock in the afternoon. He'd been sleeping for - how long? He couldn't remember what time he had come home. Hell, he couldn't remember getting home. Or what he'd done in the hours before he got home, for that matter.
Sitting up was even more painful than usual. Every muscle in his body ached as if he had gone through a full-body workout the day before. Maybe he had. He did have a vague memory of running. Maybe he'd run to a 24 hour gym for a post-bar workout.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Nothing. Complete darkness.
Alma had been with him. He would call her and ask her what happened. She'd done it countless times before; shone light on this shadow in his memory.
He dangled his feet over the edge of the bed and waited for a wave of nausea to pass. Jonathan looked up at him, his head slightly bowed. This meant he was concerned about Ral.
"It's OK, boy," he said. "I'll getcha breakfast in a second."
He tried standing up. His leg muscles burst with pain as if they'd snapped. His knees buckled. He tried catching himself, but his arms protested their use as well. He toppled onto his right side, but a pain in his hip overcame the pain in the rest of his body and he flipped onto his left side.
"Jonathan, what the hell happened to me last night?"
He crawled his way to the living room, found the phone cord, and pulled at it until the phone crashed onto the floor beside him. He dialed Alma's number and waited. One ring passed, then two, three, four. Five rings was usually his limit, but last night's shadow had caused him physical pain, and he had to know what happened.
After eight rings, she picked up.
"What?"
"Alma, it's me."
"I know," she said. Her voice was low.
"Listen, I know you hate it when I do this, but I'm hurting more than usual and I totally forget what happened last night."
"I doubt that," she said.
"Why do you doubt it?" he asked.
"I can't talk about this. It'll come back to you, Ral." Her voice cracked, and she said "never call me again."
The phone clicked and the dial tone replaced her voice.
Never call me again, Ral repeated in his mind. Was she angry at him? This is why he hated phone conversations. It's too hard to decipher what people mean when their faces are miles away.
He called her again, but this time she didn't pick up the phone at all, even after fifteen rings.
Ral managed to stand up after putting his back against the wall and clawing his way up using a counter for support. Jonathan followed him to the bathroom, still holding that head-bowing concerned look. The pain in his right hip blossomed with every step. His pajama bottoms rubbing against the area felt like salt sizzling in an open wound. Had he been stabbed or something?
He took off his pants and examined his image in the mirror. He ripped off a white bandage covering a patch on his hip.
The tattoo did not help with his memory for the previous evening. In fact, the shadow became even more irritating.
The centerpiece of the tattoo was a ferocious but odd looking bear. The background of the tattoo was coloured, but the bear remained the hue of Ral's pale skin. It was skinny for a bear, and had no lines indicating hair. A bald bear? Wavy purple lines eminated from the bear's head, giving it a purple halo. Strangest of all was the broom a few centimeters to the left to he bear's outstretched paws. Lines around the head of the broom and a little cloud of dust indicated that it was moving back and forth, sweeping dust off of Ral's hip.
It made no sense whatsoever to him. He laughed, but had to stop quickly; even breathing heavily made his lungs hurt.
He should have been upset, but wasn't. The tattoo was in a hidden place on his body, and he couldn't think of anything funnier than having an image with no intrinsic meaning permanently etched in his skin. He just wished he knew what it had meant to him when he'd gotten it. The tattoo was fine. He could always get it removed. The missing meaning behind it, however, began to eat away at him.
The shadow in his memory festered inside of him as he got dressed and prepared breakfast for Jonathan. It was like a living thing, pulsating and writhing in his belly, taunting him with occasional bursts of light: some pretty girl beside him on a couch; a shaggy-haired dude pumping his hips on a dance floor; Alma beside him, running.
Another wave of nausea struck, and he ran for the bathroom. Hey, at least if he vomited, he could tell what he had eaten last night. It looked a bit like hot dogs, but it could have been hamburger. There were some noodles in there too; clearly Alpha-Ghetti, but the intact letters didn't spell anything revealing. And throughout the mess, wispy strands of pink. Had he eaten strawberries? Or some girly red drink?
"Dude, what the fuck happened to you?" said a voice behind him.
Ral turned around and found himself staring directly at Boyd's substantial gut. A drop of pink vomit oozed then snapped off his lip and onto the floor.
"You literally look like shit," said Boyd. "Maybe more pasty white than brown, but just as clammy and inanimate."
Jonathan left Ral's side to sniff Boyd's crotch.
"How'd you get in?" Ral grunted.
"Your door was literally wide open. Was it open all night? You're lucky Jon didn't - "
"Jonathan."
"You're lucky your dog didn't get out."
Jonathan returned to Ral's side, continuing his concerned stare. Ral let his head collapse onto the toilet, where it rested.
"Dude, you need to get up. You literally look like you're about to die."
"Stop saying 'literally,'" Ral moaned.
Boyd grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him to the couch. He grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and made Ral drink it. He repeated in his deep, drawling voice, "so dude, what the fuck happened?"
"What do you think? Beer happened."
"Alright man. Good times then, eh?"
"Dunno. I can't remember a thing."
"Nothing at all? Must've been real good times. Who'd you go out with? I called and nobody answered."
"With Alma. Some thing with her people from school." Half of his sip of water burped back up with a wet gurgle.
"Right on, man. Finally letting loose with that chick, eh?"
"I've known Alma since I was a teenager," said Ral. "She's not just 'that chick'. And it's not what you think it is. Especially not now. She told me never to call her again."
"Whoa. What'd you do to her?"
"Can't remember." He burped. "You think she's mad or something?"
"Dude, if she told you to never call her again, she must be mad."
"Oh."
"Oh? This chick is the only girl you've ever been close to - the only girl I've ever seen you talk to when you're sober, actually. Doesn't that piss you off?" Boyd leaned back in the couch and faced Ral. He slipped his glasses down to the end of his nose, then rubbed a nonexistent beard on his double-chin. "How does this make you feel?" he asked.
"Bad, I guess?"
"That's what I love about you, man. Nothing gets to you. You're literally like a fuckin' rock."
Ral rolled his eyes before closing them and letting his head flop into a resting position on the back of the couch.
"Boyd," he said. "I'm in a lot of pain and I need to rest."
"Funny you mention pain, because that's exactly why I came over here. There's this huge gathering going down at J.T.'s tonight. As much beer as you can drink. And you know what beer is for? Its primary purpose? To numb pain, my friend."
"Who's going?"
"Well, so far," said Boyd. He lifted his left hand and began counting fingers with his right. "Me. You. Uhhh..."
Ral groaned.
"Come on, man. The perfect cure for a hangover is more booze. It's the hair of the dog."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"That's what it's called. The hair of the dog that bit you."
"'The hair of the dog that bit you'," Ral repeated.
Jonathan raised his head and looked at him.
Boyd gawked at him expectantly with similar puppy dog eyes.
Even sitting still, Ral's muscles were in agony. They seemed to tense and wriggle under their own volition.
"You know, I am in so much pain right now, that anything will be better than this."
"That's the spirit," said Boyd. "I'll grab you a beer."
"It's not even 4:00."
"Hair of the dog," said Boyd, glaring at Ral with mock intensity. "It'll make you feel better, promise."

After the first beer, Ral felt no better. Just the smell of it made him want to vomit again. He headed to the bar with Boyd. Each step brought protests of pain from his legs.
After the second beer, at least he didn't have to force it down again. He let Boyd talk while he listened. The waitress wanted to make small talk but he blew her off. He didn't feel like talking.
After the third beer, he began to feel the familiar loosening of his feeling. He started to laugh at Boyd's jokes. The pain in his head and body was still there - if anything he could feel it more than before - but it bothered him less. He was almost glad to feel something. Maybe there was something to this hair of the dog concept after all.
After the fourth beer, the pain began to numb, but something still felt strange about his body. Lumpy and wiggly.
After the fifth beer, he told Boyd about the tattoo.
After the sixth, he showed Boyd the tattoo.
After the seventh, he showed the waitress the tattoo.
After the eighth beer, he grabbed Boyd's hand and placed it on his chest. "Ral, I like you, but -," said Boyd, but Ral interrupted: "Do you feel that?" he said. "You're vibrating, man. And lumpy. You oughta get to a doctor or something; men can get breast cancer too ya know." They both laughed.
After the ninth beer, Boyd stopped talking and stared at the ceiling, bobbing his head to the music and enjoying the buzz of alcohol. Ral thought about Alma. A surprising flood of feeling filled him as he thought of what she had said - never call me again - returned. He got Boyd's attention and told him that he hated that she was angry at him. He hated that he didn't know why she was angry at him.
After the tenth beer, tears were streaming down his face. Boyd was looking at him with a combination of fear and pity.
"You're not yourself, Ral. We need to get you some shots," he said.

Afternoon light stung Ral's eyes as he opened them. The light coming through his bedroom window was tinged red. He glanced up at the window through foggy eyes. A splatter of dark red liquid covered a good portion of the glass. Had a bird run into the window and splattered itself?
He felt something squishy and wet on the back of his head. Damn. He'd vomited on his pillow again.
He closed his eyes again. His head hurt. He took a deep breath. The air was thick and humid. It smelled like shit. Had he crapped himself again? It'd been a while since he'd been that drunk.
He thought about how he'd gotten home from the bar with Boyd. No memory. Another shadow to join the one from the night before.
He rolled onto his side. Something moist and soft - for some reason, he thought of a wet condom - slid off his chest and onto the bed. Ral opened his eyes.
The blood on the window was on the inside. And it wasn't just on the window.
The entire wall was splattered with dark red blood. Dried drip lines gave the previously plain white walls a striped pattern punctuated with thick explosions of red. Some of the larger splotches were still wet in the middle.
Ral bolted upright. He ran his hands all over his body, feeling for any wounds, attentive to any pain. But the only pain was in his head; even his muscles didn't ache any more. His hands found only sticky wetness. Part of his mind still told him it was vomit, until he looked down at his naked body. He was covered in more than just blood. Chunks of gore clung to his skin. A thin film that looked something like red-dye-soaked phyllo pastry hung off the hair on his arms. He grasped a particularly dangly chunk and flung it to the floor.
He looked at the bed beside him. The thing that had rolled off his chest was a tubular chunk of flesh. Like everything else, it was covered in blood. Both ends of the tube were jagged and ripped. Smaller tubes - veins - encircled it.
Ral's heart beat fast. What the hell happened last night?
He slowly hoisted himself out of the bed. He still felt no pain.
Had he killed somebody? What if he got caught?
He inched toward the foot of the bed, glancing back at where he had been lying. Only small hints of white sheet peeked through the predominantly crimson bed. A pile of moist flesh sat on the pillow, with an indent where his head had been a second earlier. The soaked sheets hid another pile of gore closer to the foot of the bed.
The floor beyond the foot of the bed held more horrors. More slices of the veiny tubular flesh littered the floor, jiggling with each step he took like servings of a peculiar Jell-O cake. Scattered among the mess were small, hard white objects smeared with brownish blood.
The worst part was the hair. Globules of coagulated blood clung to ropey strings of it. It clung off the bed's foot board. Loose wisps of it floated on top of gathering pools.
Ral had to vomit. He ran to the bathroom, careful not to slip on any of the larger chunks. He splattered bloody footprints on the hardwood floor in the living room, then in the bathroom, making it just in time. Even his vomit was crimson.
He stood up and looked in the mirror. He was naked. His body was streaked with blood in varying degrees of coagulation and dryness. Something was different about his face.
Jonathan appeared at the door to the bathroom. His ears were back on his head, his tail was pointing down, and his back was slightly hunched. This meant that he was apprehensive; Ral had seen the same look when Jonathan was approached by bigger dogs. He held out a hand and told Jonathan that it was OK, everything was OK; but the dog whimpered and retreated into the next room. Ral didn't blame him. He didn't want to be near himself at the moment either.
He showered, letting the blood flow down the drain in pink swirls. His breath was heavy. He almost felt like crying. Whose blood was he washing off? How did it get in his room? Was he responsible for it? How would he get the stains out of his carpet?
When he looked in the mirror, something was still different about his face. It was the hair. He could have sworn that he was almost clean-shaven before leaving the night before. Now a sparse beard had formed, about the same length as the rest of the hair on his head. How long had he been sleeping?
Something caught his attention in the background.
The living room couch was partly visible in the mirror. A green garment was draped on the back of it: Boyd's coat.
Ral felt like he'd been punched in the chest.
Had the victim of his unrecalled drunken massacre been Boyd? Did he just wash bits of his best friend down the drain?