War Room Pt. II

I wake up to the brutal rays of the early morning sun beating on my heavy eyelids through my upturned levelor blinds, and I have no recollection of how I ended up here. My French night(mare) hangover has only just begun, but the deep pang of guilt and regret have long been building. But these are not the important issues, friends. The issue at hand, O my brothers, was the blaring incessant clang of my ringing cell phone pounding my fragile temples. I wanted sleep. I ended up with Kulpa. Turns out The Don received my rambling voice mail once he awakened from his own "Vegas-style" druken stupor and was chomping at the conservative bits to make arrangements for me to come to terms with the J Cruz bartender situation. He gave me instructions that were completely opposite of cut-and-run and threatened me with a swollen face and dead relative if I didn't carry them out. The choice was simple, but who would I turn to for much needed timely assistance? Badge, Becky, and Hornings were surely still intoxicated from the fifty-plus glasses of wine that we each put down last night, Rene is probably too depressed to make a judgement call, and the rest of the War Room crew has been brutal of late. These are decisions that only one man can make. One man with experience with the matter at hand. That man, some may say, is the most interesting man in the world.