****
Despite the situation, Steve began to make a witty comment. It was, however, at that exact time, that his hangover decided it had been bloody well patient enough.
Even as Steve's vomit spewed onto the homeless man, Steve's throat burning, his stomach clenching painfully, Steve couldn't help but note the irony of, despite his nakedness, having had something to spare, and give, to the fellow after all.
Ronald's reaction to the vomit was akin to the first Apache who'd been shot at by their Caucasian invaders. There was a moment of paralyzed shock, then recognition, and then, he took to the ground. It wasn't the best action he could have taken, as, the large amount of running, and the excessive amount of vomiting, that Steve had indeed promised his hangover, was causing Steve's legs to give out from under him, which, as luck wouldn't quite have it, caused the flow of pickled Cheetos to follow Ronald's descent, leaving him thoroughly, and completely, drenched.
Ronald had few things. Indeed, very few people even knew his name and most regarded him as an inconvenient thing that they had to witness every few days or so. But Ronald's few remaining morsels of dignity appeared to have been entirely dissolved by Steve's stomach acid.
Ronald slowly rose to his feet. His eyes, had they been able to open fully, would no doubt have been able to shoot through solidified sugar cane or, at the very least, cause many a wincing. He paused, wiped his vomit-covered-face with his vomit-covered sleeve, noted the redundancy, waited for Steve to finish his purging, and, then, decided to ask, from his experience, the most obvious of questions:
“Problems with the missus?” Ronald spat.
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