A Discordian Pope Baptises An Egg For Breakfast

Pope Moechus V—Just Moe, to her friends—awoke with a real son-of-a-bitch of a hangover. She'd been out clubbing last night with a few of the anarcho-gnostic poets who lived in the squat next door, and those guys had a hookup for a Japanese absinthe brand that was illegal to sell or consume on this side of the Pacific, Ultimate Wormwood something. Moe was pretty sure it was hallucinogenic, but the poets might've doped it with something; their particular sect taught that mushrooms and acid were holy sacraments, after all, so it wouldn't be a surprise. She briefly remembered the party coming back to her place—that would explain the bed's other occupants, a heavily-tattooed pair whose noms de plume Moe couldn't quite remember—but most of the night was simply a blur of bad EDM, sweaty masses of dancing bodies, and way too much of the green fairy.

Moe's bed-buddies—both of whom were, disappointingly, fully clothed, though that was probably for the best—were dead to the world, so she had to climb over one of them to escape. She barely made it to the bathroom before puking. She'd never been happier that her roommates kept leaving the toilet seat up.

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