On this presumably beautiful morning, Rock awoke to the pleasant sensation of an ammunition dump cooking off in his head. Feeling as though his skull might split, he sat up with his hand pressed against his eyes (for they felt as if they would fall out of their sockets). His other hand groped against slippery bed sheets for support, knocking an empty shot glass over in the process. When he felt his vision had adjusted sufficiently to the brightness in the room, he withdrew his hand and took in his surroundings: Big bedroom with vaulted ceiling and classically styled furniture, glass encased bookshelves, dark wood and velvet, scents of cigar, perfume, and dregs of hard liquor, an expensive home theater system and a big screen television playing muted static. The environment seemed familiar; he could have sworn he knew the place, as there were only so few truly upscale locations in this sin city of sin cities. He also knew that he had the worse hangover of his life, and thus his memory—or any other function requiring his brain—couldn't be vouched for.