From previous experience he knew that the worse the hangover, the better the night.

So he figured that last night must have been epic.

Empty beer cans and vodka bottles clattered noisily across the floor as he swung his arm out from under what he hoped was a blanket. Wherever he was it was cold, uncomfortable and damp against his skin, which- with a slight pang of worry- he now realised was completely exposed. Groggy feelings began to lumber back into his senses and he was able to get a misty idea of where he was and what he was doing there.

Although whether or not that was a good thing he couldn't be entirely sure.

He squinted painfully around the room; groaning internally as hazy memories began to return to him, worsening his already aching head. A vague picture of the night's events began to piece together as he strained his mind, trying not to focus too long on the worrying gaps in his knowledge, which, frankly, seemed to be the most important bits.

For instance: he knew he was in a bathtub in suite 105 of Ceasers Palace, Vegas although he couldn't remember why. He realised that outside there was likely to be a road sign, four pairs of high-heeled cowboy boots, and his unconscious travelling companion however he couldn't for the life of him say where the road sign went to, who the boots belonged to or where Rose was passed out.

He stood up, rubbing his eyes with the rough balls of his fingertips and watching the spots of light dance before him.

'Shitting hell' the general tangle of clothes and underwear swayed his balance as he attempted to cover himself up, hoping desperately that Rose would be a stranger to his naked form and choosing not to notice the empty condom box which had fallen from his pocket. He steadied himself against the wall, resting a hand gently on the handle of the door.

'What happens in Vegas…' He mumbled to himself as he stepped out into the carnage and mayhem that was the rest of the suite.