“Ugh….Oh God…Jeff?” Stan Smith blinked his way back to life as he sat up in the nest of blankets his son-in-law had made for him.
“Good, you’re awake!” Something nearby was sizzling – Jeff was cooking eggs over a can of Sterno, he realized. Stan recoiled in horror.
“Ugh, why is my head pounding?”
Jeff shook his head. “Dude, don’t you remember? We pounded quarters with this dude calling himself Roy McFreely, and then he dared you to pull a full Wet Willie on me, and…”
The memories flew back to Stan in their full, disgusting detail. “Roger!”
“…So then I screamed the words to Freebird while you fisted me!” He held out a pan of eggs adoringly. “Breakfast?”
Stan urped. “Jeff?”
“Yeah, Mr. S?”
“Promise me you’ll find Roger and avenge me if I don’t survive this hangover.” He clutched his tummy. “And now I have to throw up.”
Jeff shrugged and glanced as he handed him an empty coffee can. “Keep riding the rails, Mr. S!” he encouraged, while Stan moaned and heaved.