HUMWOFFLE

Stephan lays out on the roof wearing his turquoise speedo while the remnants of last night’s kegger cum orgy litter it.  Passed-out bodies, bags of empty bottles, puddles of vomit and cigarette butts numbering in the hundreds. 

Stephan is unphased.  He’s stepped over worse in order to get his Sunday morning baste on.  Every so often a frat boy or a feminine dimwit covered in dried spooge gets up, dusts themselves off and, after a hungover, snide comment, stumbles down the stairs into a hazy, awaiting day. 

Stephan may as well be a carcass.  That is, if it weren’t for the warmth of his hairy, well-tanned, well-greased skin.  No matter how much noise the revived mob makes, he does not move.

It’s just another Sunday morning on the Humwoffle rooftop deck.

-SLL