Everyone Hates Mondays

Monday morning crept in, the first faint rays of sunlight slipping through RS’s blinds, painting stripes across his cluttered room. You’d think it’d be the first day of school—senior year at Boulder High kicking off with a bleary-eyed bang—but nope. The school board, in a rare stroke of mercy, had decided starting on a Monday was too grim, so the official launch was bumped to Tuesday. RS had an extra day of freedom, and he woke up feeling it—along with a raging hard-on tenting his boxers, stiff and insistent under the sheets.

He groaned, rolling onto his back, one hand rubbing his eyes as the other hovered over his crotch, debating. “What the hell?” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. His dreams were a hazy mess—something about a succubus? Red eyes, wicked grin, claws on his chest, maybe? It flickered at the edges of his mind, too slippery to grab, but the heat lingered. He shrugged it off—probably just his brain riffing on the weekend’s chaos—and swung his legs out of bed, boner and all.

Morning routine kicked in like clockwork. He stumbled to the bathroom, brushing off the faint ache in his legs from yesterday’s bike ride. The door was unlocked—Vanessa must’ve already cleared out—so he shuffled in, splashing cold water on his face to shake the fog. His reflection stared back, freckles stark against pale skin, hazel eyes still half-lidded. He pissed, the hard-on finally easing, then brushed his teeth, toothpaste foam dripping as he zoned out, the succubus tease still nagging at him. Shower next—quick and hot, steam curling as he scrubbed down with pine soap, washing away the last of sleep and whatever weirdness his subconscious had cooked up.

Back in his room, he yanked on a faded Flash tee and jeans, the Monday stretching out ahead—school-free, ripe for whatever he wanted to make of it. The wish power hummed under his skin, a quiet thrill he couldn’t ignore, tempting him to stir up more chaos.

RS flopped onto his bed, still buzzing from the shower, the Flash tee clinging slightly to his damp skin as he grabbed his phone. Monday sprawled ahead, a bonus day off thanks to the school board’s anti-Monday vibe, and he figured nobody else hated the day’s gloom more than his crew. He opened the Nerd Herd group chat, thumbs tapping out a quick, “who’s up? monday’s dead, let’s make it fun.”

The chat was quiet for a beat, then Priya’s name popped up, her message blasting in all caps like a caffeine-fueled war cry: “IM SO FUCKING CLOSE!” RS blinked, a grin tugging at his lips as he pictured her—blue-tipped hair wild, eyes bloodshot, hunched over that new laptop he’d handed her yesterday. Another text followed, just as frantic: “Been up all night. Ghost is almost cracked—self-optimizing code’s hitting 90% efficiency. I’m a GODDESS. Need coffee tho or I’ll die.”

Tim chimed in, sleepy and slow: “Up now. Barely. Priya, you’re insane. I’m just doodling Eclipse crap—Grant Maddox has me fucked up.”

Jamie was last, predictably chipper: “Morning, nerds! I’m up—Kayla texted me good morning with a heart. I’m still dead from yesterday. What’s the plan?”

RS laughed, the succubus haze fading as his crew’s energy lit him up. Priya’s AI grind, Tim’s comic envy, Jamie’s lovesick glow—it was prime chaos fodder, and he was itching to stir it. He typed back, “Priya, you’re a machine—coffee run? Tim, bring your sketches. Jamie, you’re buying, loverboy. Meet at Bean There in 30?”

RS pedaled to Bean There, the cool Monday morning air cutting through his Flash tee as he locked his bike outside the coffee shop. The others rolled in—Priya, bleary-eyed but wired, her laptop bag slung over her shoulder; Tim, yawning, sketchbook tucked under his arm; Jamie, bouncing like a puppy, still riding his Kayla high. They shoved into a booth, the place quiet except for the hiss of the espresso machine and a few stragglers nursing mugs.

RS ordered first, leaning over the counter with a grin. “Slushy green tea lemonade mix, toss in some vanilla ice cream—blend it up.” The barista raised an eyebrow but nodded, whirring it into a frosty, creamy mess that hit all the right spots. Priya grabbed a black coffee, double shot, muttering, “Fuel, not flavor.” Tim went for a chai latte, “something chill,” he said, while Jamie snagged a caramel latte, extra whip, “Kayla’s paying me back in kisses later,” he winked, sliding cash across.

They settled in, sipping and bantering—Priya raving about Ghost’s latest tweak, Jamie gushing about Kayla’s apartment couch (skipping the spicier bits), Tim grumbling about Eclipse stealing his thunder. RS stirred his slushy concoction, the ice crunching, then leaned forward, cutting through the chatter. “Tim, why not turn our story into a comic? Think about it—lately, we’ve lived some wild shit. The park, the jogger, the tournament—imagine that in panels, a life-journey thing.”

Tim’s eyes went wide, chai halfway to his mouth. “Holy… you’re right,” he said, voice climbing as it sank in. “Like, Jamie’s frisbee-to-the-face origin story, Priya’s AI goddess arc, the Heroes vs. Villains showdown—all of it. A slice-of-life epic with a twist. That’d be brilliant.” He flipped open his sketchbook, pencil already scratching—rough outlines of Jamie gaping at Kayla, Priya hunched over a glowing screen. “I could serialize it, drop it online—people would eat this up.”

Priya smirked, sipping her coffee. “Make me look badass, not sleep-deprived.” Jamie laughed, “Draw me heroic, dude—Kayla’d frame it.” RS grinned, slurping his drink, the chaos seed planted—Tim’s comic could be the next wish-fueled win.

The booth grew cozier as the drinks dwindled—RS’s slushy green tea lemonade mix reduced to a puddle of melted vanilla, Priya’s coffee down to bitter dregs, Tim’s chai a faint ring in the mug, Jamie’s latte a sticky smear of whipped cream. Tim hunched over his sketchbook, pencil flying, the scratch of graphite filling the gaps in their chatter. A little while longer, and he sat back, flipping the page around with a smug, “Check this.”

RS leaned in first, grinning as he saw himself—100% dead-on, freckles and all, hazel eyes sharp under messy brown hair, rocking his Flash tee like a badge. “Nailed me, dude,” he said, slurping the last of his drink. Next was Jamie, drawn as a sad puppy—big, droopy eyes, sandy curls flopping, human but with a lovesick slump that screamed Park Puppy. “Holy shit, that’s creepy accurate,” Jamie laughed, running a hand through his hair, “Kayla’d lose it over this.”

Priya’s turn—she was a goth-cyberpunk mashup, blue-tipped bob stark against a dark hoodie, eyes glowing like she was jacked into the matrix, a laptop pulsing with code in her lap. “Okay, I’m badass,” she said, smirking approval. “Ghost would approve too.” Then Tim himself—self-styled as a “god in the clouds,” looming above, lanky and ethereal, reaching down with a pencil and pen kit like a divine artist sketching their lives, his hoodie billowing in imaginary wind.

RS whistled, leaning back. “Tim, this is wild. You’ve got us pegged—turn that into a full spread, and we’re golden.” Tim’s eyes glinted, already plotting. “First chapter’s the park—Jamie’s frisbee fail, Kayla’s grab. Then the tournament. It’s writing itself.” The sketch was rough, but the vibe was there—a troupe of nerds stumbling through chaos, penned by their own god. RS felt that familiar buzz—his wishes fueling this, even if they didn’t know it.

The booth was mid-laugh, Tim still gloating over his sketch, when the door to Bean There swung open with a jingle—and in stormed Kayla, a whirlwind of blonde ponytail and chaos. She clutched a to-go coffee, her jogger energy swapped for a denim skirt and a tight tee that showed off every curve, her grin wide and wild. “Found you, nerds!” she announced, zeroing in on their table like a heat-seeking missile.

Tim melted into his seat, eyes widening as she beelined for Jamie—but then, in a havoc-wreaking twist, she plopped right onto Tim’s lap instead, her coffee sloshing dangerously. “Whoops, wrong puppy!” she giggled, squirming as Tim turned beet red, his sketchbook nearly slipping to the floor. She leaned over, snagging Jamie’s wrist with her free hand. “There’s my dumb Park Puppy—missed you,” she cooed, planting a loud kiss on his cheek, leaving a faint lipstick smudge.

Jamie stammered, “K-Kayla, what—” but she cut him off, giggling harder, her weight still pinning Tim, who looked like he might combust. “Saw your bikes outside,” she said, sipping her coffee like this was normal. “Had to crash the party. What’s this?” She snatched Tim’s sketchbook, flipping it to the puppy-Jamie sketch. “Oh my god, it’s perfect—you’re such a sad little mutt, babe!” Jamie groaned, half-laughing, while Priya cackled, “She’s gonna frame that, dude.”

RS grinned, leaning back as Kayla wreaked her havoc—Tim a puddle, Jamie flustered, the booth now a circus. “Welcome to the shitshow, Kayla,” he said, slurping the last dregs of his slushy. The buzz in his chest flared—his wish had brought her into Jamie’s orbit, and now she was chaos incarnate, shaking up their Monday like a live grenade.

Kayla popped up from Tim’s lap, leaving him a flushed, disheveled mess as he slumped back, exhaling like he’d just survived a tornado. She twirled Tim’s sketchbook in her hands, zeroing in on the sad-puppy Jamie sketch. “Wait, wait—can I have this?” she asked, batting her lashes at Tim, her voice all sugar and pleading. “It’s too good—my Park Puppy in all his glory.”

Tim blinked, still recovering, then nodded fast. “Uh, yeah, sure—take it,” he said, voice cracking slightly as he waved a hand. She beamed, carefully tearing the page free and folding it into her tiny purse—a little black thing slung over her shoulder—before spinning back to Jamie. With a wiggle of enthusiasm, she plopped onto his lap this time, squirming in tight, her denim skirt riding up as she nestled against him. “There’s my spot,” she purred, wrapping an arm around his neck, her coffee balanced expertly in her other hand.

Jamie’s face went scarlet, but he didn’t fight it—grinning like an idiot as she pressed closer, her warmth and energy screaming she was all in. “You’re nuts,” he mumbled, but his hands settled on her waist, proving he loved it too. She giggled, nuzzling his cheek. “Only for you, puppy—I’m keeping that sketch forever.” It was clear—she really did love him, nerdy mess and all, her teasing laced with a fierce, chaotic affection.

RS watched, smirking as the booth turned into Kayla’s playground. “You’re officially one of us now, Kayla,” he said, kicking back with his empty slushy cup. “Hope you’re ready for the ride.” Priya snorted, “She’s already driving,” while Tim, finally upright, muttered, “I need a nap after that.”

Kayla wasn’t always the whirlwind of blonde energy crashing into Jamie’s life like a sexy tornado. Born 20 years ago in a dusty Denver suburb, she grew up as Kayla Marie Tanner, the middle kid of three in a loud, messy household. Her dad was a mechanic, hands always greasy, voice gruff, fixing up old Chevys in the garage while her mom juggled night shifts as a nurse, leaving Kayla and her siblings—older brother Jake and younger sister Mia—to fend for themselves half the time. Money was tight, dinners were often ramen or whatever was on sale, but Kayla learned early how to stand out in the chaos—loud, bold, unmissable.

School was a mixed bag. She was smart—street-smart, mostly—but never cared for grades, coasting through with Cs and a smirk, charming teachers out of detentions with a wink and a laugh. She ran track, legs like pistons, ponytail whipping as she smoked the competition in sprints, but quit junior year when the coach got too handsy. Boys noticed her fast—tanned skin, sharp cheekbones, that natural sway in her hips—but she noticed them back, picking the bad ones every time. Leather jackets, motorcycles, guys with tattoos and tempers—her type from 16 on. They’d rev her up, promise the world, then cheat with some bar chick or ghost her for weeks. Every. Damn. Time. By 19, she’d racked up five exes, each a bigger asshole than the last, leaving her jaded but tougher, a steel edge under her flirty grin.

She moved to Boulder last year, chasing a fresh start after a blowout fight with ex number five—Diesel, a biker who’d smashed her phone when she called him out. She crashed with a cousin, got a part-time gig at a gym (free membership perk), and started jogging to burn off the restlessness. That’s where she found her groove—pounding trails, music blasting, free from the weight of shitty men. She wasn’t looking for love, just fun—until Jamie stumbled into her orbit at the park, all freckles and flustered charm. A nerd, not her type, but something clicked. He didn’t strut or lie; he just stared, dumbstruck, and she loved breaking him. The “Park Puppy” thing stuck because he followed her lead like a lost dog—loyal, sweet, the opposite of every prick she’d dated.

Now, perched on his lap at Bean There, giggling as she wiggled closer, Kayla felt something new. Jamie’s nerdiness—his Star Wars rants, his shy grins—hooked her hard. She’d been with bad boys who’d screw anything that moved, but Jamie? He’d never cheat, not with how he looked at her like she hung the moon. That sketch in her purse, him as a sad puppy, was her trophy—proof she’d found something real, even if she didn’t know yet about the baby ticking away inside her, a surprise from their couch romp. For now, she was all in, teasing him senseless, calling him “puppy” with a love she didn’t even fully clock yet.

RS tipped his empty slushy cup at her, grinning. “You’re a **** of nature, Kayla—Jamie’s doomed.” She laughed, tossing her ponytail. “Damn right, he is,” she said, kissing Jamie’s cheek again, oblivious to how deep she’d already tangled him—and herself—in this nerdy crew’s chaos.

Kayla shifted on Jamie’s lap, her coffee cup now empty on the table, and clapped her hands with a sudden spark. “Movie time, nerds!” she declared, hopping up and tugging Jamie to his feet. “There’s a medieval fantasy flick playing at the Regal—knights, dragons, all that shit. You’re all in, right?” Her grin dared them to say no.

RS raised an eyebrow, tossing his slushy cup in the trash. “Hell yeah, I’m down—swords and chaos? My vibe.” Tim nodded, sketchbook already tucked away. “Sounds dope—might steal some visuals.” Priya, though, squinted at Kayla, skepticism all over her face. “You? Picking a medieval fantasy movie? I thought you’d go for, like, a rom-com or something sweaty.”

Kayla stuck her tongue out, a teasing “lol” vibe, and smirked. “I wasn’t born a goddess, Priya—I’ve got layers. Used to watch this stuff with my brother. Let’s roll!” They grabbed their bikes—Kayla hopping on behind Jamie, arms around his waist—and pedaled to the Regal, a squat multiplex a few blocks off. Tickets snagged, popcorn grabbed, they filed into the theater, claiming the back row of the half-empty screening—perfect for their crew’s chaos.

The movie kicked off—Dragon’s Requiem, some gritty tale of a rogue knight and a fire-breathing wyrm, all clanking armor and epic vistas. RS sank into his seat, munching popcorn, while Tim sketched in the dark, Priya muttering about the CGI. Jamie and Kayla, though, were a different story. She’d draped herself all over him from the start—legs across his lap, whispering in his ear, giggling as he squirmed. Halfway through, it escalated—her lips locked onto his, a full-on makeout session, sloppy and shameless. Jamie’s hands flailed, then settled, a muffled “mmph” escaping as she took charge.

Then her hand slid down, subtle at first, but not for long—she was jerking him off right there, under the dim flicker of the screen, his shorts unzipped just enough. The rustle of fabric and his choked gasps cut through the movie’s score. RS glanced sideways, eyes widening, then snapped back to the knight slashing a dragon. Priya’s jaw tightened, her focus locked on the screen like it was life or ****. Tim coughed, sketching harder, pretending the wyrm’s roar drowned it all out. They all noticed—how could they not?—but nobody said a word, just hard-focused on the film, cheeks burning, letting Jamie and Kayla’s chaos play out in the shadows.

The movie hummed along, the knight on-screen creeping through a silent forest, tension thick as the music dropped to a whisper. Jamie and Kayla were still at it in the back row, her hand working him under the cover of darkness, his breathing ragged but muffled—until it wasn’t. Right in that quiet beat, he hit the edge, and a loud, unmistakable “Oh fuck yeah” burst out of him, clear as day, echoing through the theater. Heads turned, a few gasps and snickers rippling from the sparse crowd, while RS, Priya, and Tim froze, eyes glued to the screen like it could erase the moment.

Kayla didn’t miss a beat. She giggled, pulling her hand free and licking her fingers with a slow, deliberate swipe, savoring the “yummy treat” Jamie had given her. “Good boy, puppy,” she whispered, loud enough for the crew to catch, her grin wicked in the flickering light. Jamie slumped in his seat, face flaming red, a mix of bliss and mortification as he zipped up, muttering, “Shit, shit, sorry.”

RS coughed into his fist, still staring at the knight now facing a dragon, his own face heating up. “Uh… nice timing, dude,” he said under his breath, just loud enough for Priya and Tim to hear. Priya hissed, “I’m bleaching my ears later,” while Tim snorted, pencil scratching faster, probably adding this to his comic draft. The movie rolled on, but the back row was a stew of awkward silence and Kayla’s smug little hums, chaos reigning supreme.

The credits rolled on Dragon’s Requiem, the knight victorious over a pile of dragon guts, and the sparse crowd erupted in cheers—great ending, epic payoff. RS clapped along, still half-recovering from Jamie’s outburst, as the lights flicked on. “Solid flick,” he said, stretching as they shuffled out of the theater room, Kayla tugging Jamie by the hand, her purse bouncing with that folded sketch inside. “Arcade next?” she chirped, already steering them toward the Regal’s attached game room, a neon-lit cave of beeps and flashing screens.

They spilled into the arcade, the air thick with the hum of machines and the faint tang of spilled soda. Kayla made a beeline for the DDR machine, coins clinking as she fired it up. She kicked off her sneakers, barefoot on the dance pad, and picked a thumping techno track—“Funky Groove ****,” max difficulty. The beat dropped, and she went off—hips swaying, legs snapping to the arrows, her denim skirt riding up as she grooved like a slut, all fluid and shameless. Jamie’s eyes locked on her, jaw slack, practically drooling as her body moved—ass jiggling, chest bouncing, a one-woman show that owned the room.

RS leaned against a nearby Street Fighter cab, arms crossed, smirking but flustered. “She’s… uh, got moves,” he muttered, glancing away when her skirt flipped too high, his face warming. Priya, perched on a stool by Galaga, snorted, eyes flicking from her pixelated ship to Kayla’s performance. “Jesus, she’s basically stripping—Jamie’s brain’s gonna fry again,” she said, half-amused, half-exasperated, blasting aliens to dodge the live-action chaos. Tim, hunched over a Mortal Kombat machine, peeked up mid-combo, Scorpion’s spear paused. “Fuckin’ hell, she’s a weapon,” he said, voice low, sketching her in his head for later—jealous of her raw energy but too awkward to stare long.

Kayla laughed, hitting a perfect combo, sweat beading on her forehead as the crowd—mostly geeky teens and a few older dudes—gawked. One kid, maybe 15, whispered to his buddy, “She’s hot as shit,” while a grizzled guy at Pac-Man grunted, “Kids these days,” but kept sneaking looks. Jamie just stood there, hands in pockets, dick probably stirring again, muttering, “You’re killing me, babe,” under his breath.

The crew split off after her song ended—score: 98, perfect run. RS hit Street Fighter, picking Ryu and mashing hadoukens solo, racking up a 12-win streak against the AI, his focus sharp despite Kayla’s echo in his head. Priya stayed on Galaga, her ship darting through waves, cursing as a tractor beam snagged her—“Fucking bullshit!”—but topping the leaderboard anyway, 187,650 points. Tim stuck with Mortal Kombat, facing off against Priya after she wandered over, Sub-Zero vs. Scorpion—her ice blasts edging him out 2-1, him grumbling, “Cheap freeze spam,” while she smirked, “Git gud.”

Jamie and Kayla teamed up on a two-player Time Crisis cab, guns blazing, her leaning into him as they mowed down pixel goons. “Cover me, puppy!” she yelled, giggling as he missed a shot, their score a respectable 45,200—decent, but her grinding against him mid-reload probably tanked his aim. The arcade buzzed around them, coins clinking, screens flashing, their crew lost in the glow—Kayla’s dance still the loudest thing in the room.

The arcade thrummed with its usual chaos—RS still mashing Ryu’s combos, Priya cussing at Galaga, Tim nursing his Mortal Kombat loss—when a scrawny middle schooler, all braces and patchy peach fuzz, swaggered up to Kayla. His buddies snickered from the Skee-Ball lanes, egging him on, one whispering, “Dare ya, hit on the hot chick.” Kayla was mid-reload on Time Crisis, hip cocked, laughing with Jamie, when the kid puffed out his chest and piped up, “Hey, uh, you’re pretty fine—ditch the nerd and hang with me, huh?”

Jamie froze, gun limp in his hand, eyes darting between the kid and Kayla, a flush creeping up his neck. Kayla turned, mid-giggle, and sized the little shit up—5’2” tops, voice cracking, oozing fake bravado. She burst out laughing, loud and sharp, doubling over so her ponytail swung. “Oh, sweetie,” she said, catching her breath, “this is my puppy—” she slung an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, tugging him close—“and maybe if you’re kind and warm-hearted like him, you could land someone like me. But, nah, you’re not there yet, kiddo.”

Before the middle schooler could sputter a comeback, she spun Jamie to face her, grabbed his cheeks, and planted a sloppy, wet kiss on him—full tongue, no shame, right there in the arcade glow. Jamie’s eyes widened, then fluttered shut, a muffled “mmph” escaping as he melted into it, hands fumbling to her waist. The kid’s jaw dropped, mind melting as he stumbled back, face redder than the Pac-Man cherry. “NO WAY, DUDE, SHE’S TOO MUCH!” he yelped, bolting back to his crew, who howled and shoved him—“Failed, bro, you’re toast!”

Kayla pulled back, licking her lips with a grin, Jamie a dazed puddle in her grip. “That’s my good puppy,” she cooed, ruffling his curls. RS glanced over from Street Fighter, smirking. “Kid never had a chance,” he said, landing a shoryuken on the AI. Priya snorted, “Natural selection in action,” while Tim muttered, “Gonna draw that—epic shutdown,” already scribbling in his head. The arcade buzzed on, Kayla’s chaos reigning supreme.

The arcade’s neon glow started to feel stale as the crew wrapped up their games—RS landing one last KO in Street Fighter, Priya cursing a final Galaga ****, Tim tapping out after a Mortal Kombat fatality, and Jamie and Kayla blasting through Time Crisis until the “Game Over” screen flashed. Kayla stretched, her denim skirt shifting as she checked her phone. “Shit, gotta bounce,” she said, slinging her tiny purse over her shoulder. “Work’s calling—teaching gym classes tonight. Spin and cardio, ugh.”

She turned to Jamie, who was still half-dazed from her kiss, and grinned. “You should come by sometime, puppy—it’s fun to sweat,” she said, her tone playful and warm, not a jab at his lanky frame but a flirty invite, her affection clear. She leaned in, planting a quick, firm goodbye kiss on his lips—less sloppy this time, more possessive—then ruffled his curls. “Later, babe,” she chirped, hopping into her beat-up Honda parked out front. The engine sputtered to life, and she peeled off, disappearing into the Monday dusk.

The Nerd Herd stood outside, bikes unlocked, the air cooling as the sun dipped low. RS smirked, kicking a pebble. “Things are officially wild, huh? Jamie’s got a livewire now.” Priya laughed, slinging her laptop bag over her shoulder. “No kidding—she’s a chaos engine. Ghost’d short-circuit trying to predict her.” Tim, sketchbook already out, jotted notes furiously—“Kayla DDR slay, kid fail, sloppy kiss KO”—muttering, “Can’t forget this shit, goldmine for the comic.”

Jamie rubbed his neck, grinning like an idiot. “She’s… yeah, wild. I’m so screwed, guys.” RS clapped his back. “Screwed and loving it, Park Puppy—own it.” They quipped and jested, the gang’s banter sharp and easy, marveling at how Kayla had flipped their nerdy orbit into overdrive. Bikes rolling, they split off toward home, Tim still scribbling, the day’s chaos cemented in their legend.

RS lounged on his bed, the Flash tee twisted from restless shifting, the Monday sun dipping low outside. Tomorrow was senior year’s kickoff, and the wish power pulsed in him, a dark little tease he couldn’t resist. Kayla’s chaos, Vanessa’s edge, Priya’s fire—it had him thinking about attraction, power, flipping the game. He smirked, propping himself on an elbow, and let it rip, voice low and cocky: “I wish that tomorrow, every girl I’m attracted to, when she sees me, gets hit with a crush way stronger than what I feel for her. Just for the day.”

No fanfare, no spooky shit—just a quiet hum in his bones as the wish locked in. He didn’t clock the trouble brewing, only saw the upside: girls he’d eyed—Priya, maybe that hot chem lab TA, even random hallway crushes—suddenly drooling over him, harder than he’d ever drooled over them. A power trip, a horny ego boost—perfect. He laughed to himself, imagining a gauntlet of flustered stares and bold moves, not yet seeing the chaos of too many hands reaching at once. Exhausted from the day, he crashed back, eyes drifting shut, and slipped into sleep. Dreams took over—a harem of faceless beauties, all giggling, tugging at his shirt, whispering his name, a king in a sea of lust.