See Spot Run

EINS: "BLUE'S MY FAVORITE FLAVOR"

Wahoo Begum is currently in mourning and has been for the past three days. It's a little excessive, to say the least.

"Good mornin', sad clown," Spot says, opening the door with her hip and juggling a bag of groceries in each arm. Wahoo lets Spot know that he's alive by grunting into his pillow and offering her a half-assed wave before slumping back into the depths of his couch and loneliness.

Spot remains oblivious to his state of depression and asks, "How are we feeling today?" as she unceremoniously drops the bags onto the kitchen table along with a stack of mail. "If it helps at all, Taco Bell has a two tacos for ninety-nine cents deal going on. And you got someone's Delia catalog. We could make fun of how wide the pant legs are now, that's always a good time."

This time, Wahoo is able to muster up enough energy to pull himself away from his pillow, only to immediately gag and mumble, "I'm so hungover. I think I'm dying."

"So hungover that you can't help put the groceries away?" Spot asks, even though she already knows that even a sober Wahoo would never be bothered to do so. It's no surprise to her when he nods and then groans akin to a man who's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Spot, why do the worst things always happen to the best people?" Wahoo asks, slowing rolling over and adjusting one of the many leopard print blankets he has.

Spot suppresses the urge to laugh, pawing through the grocery bags and asking, "What do you mean?"

Wahoo's eyebrows furrow together as he stares at the ceiling lights so hard that bits of light become engrained in his vision. He closes his eyes tightly and rubs his face in a feeble attempt to get rid of them, but when it fails, he simply keeps his eyes closed and appreciates the phenomena as he tells Spot, "Look at me. My girlfriend moved to Switzerland, I probably have incurable depression, I'm dying of alcohol poisoning. . . this isn't how I want them to find my body, Spot. I've already embarrassed myself enough in life, I can't have it carry on to death too."

"So how about you get up and help me put away the quinoa? So at least if you die, which you won't, it'll be doing something useful," Spot suggests.

"Mmm, I'm good."

"I think that'd be a nice last memory to have. Officer, he was always such a help. Just before he passed he was helping me put the groceries away instead of making noises on the couch and being a general bane of the world's existence, I'd say." When Wahoo fails to come up with a witty enough retort Spot rolls her eyes and gives up on trying to figure out which cabinet the Chef Boyardee goes in, deciding that at least if she leaves them on the countertop, it'll be easier for him to find later. 

"And by the way, Snoopy isn't your girlfriend. Just an F-Y-I. Whatever the polar opposite of a girlfriend is, she's more like that." She fishes through the second bag and produces a bottle of sports drink from it. 

"But hey, look! I remembered your Gatorade, so your life can't be all that bad."

Wahoo thinks about this and nods. "That's true." He sighs afterward, sending a fresh round of dust and mold particles from his pillow into the air. "What flavor?"

"Shit, I dunno." Spot studies the bottle so hard it strains her vision until she finds what she's looking for. "Whatever Cool Blue tastes like." The fact that she doesn't know exactly what flavor it is comes off as suspicious to Wahoo, but after realizing that he has no clue either he graciously accepts it and attempts to down half of it while laying down.

"Oh my god," Spot sneers, her heels clicking against the floor as she rushes back to get paper towels. "Wahoo, what the fuck made you think that would work?"