." Russ groaned, stupidly trying to rub away the near-migraine thundering in his head.
The details were still a bit blurry, but the basics of the night before are there. Stag night. Strippers.
Russ dancing drunk on a pole. With a feather boa. He's just praying he's not the only one with a bit of Jack Daniels amnesia, and that if he
twirl around in plastic chaps, they've forgotten about it too. Honestly though, half of them look as bad as he does, so his chances of surviving the embarrassment seem pretty high.
His biggest competitor for worst headache is probably Font. Poor guy looks about two minutes away from stumbling onto his face and vomiting on his shoes.
The only reason Russ was still (mostly) stable on his feet was because Milt was in their office, watching him with keen eyes.
It's a pain to keep his back straight and fight off the want to massage his head. It feels like Milt is just
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