Scomiche Scott's vision is fuzzy. Hazy. Unfocused like it hasn't been since the LASIK. He vaguely wonders why, but his head hurts so much he's distracted and can't figure it out. He thinks for a second that he's drunk. That he's given himself the mother of all hangovers. But his shoulder and his arm and his chest and his side and his leg also hurt-shit, his shoulder really hurts-and he's never been drunk enough for that to happen before. Plus, if he's not mistaken, that's his steering wheel in front of him, through the haze and the dust and the noise and the red and whatever the deflated white thing is. Regardless of how drunk he's been, he would never be drunk in the driver's seat of his car. Fuck. Fuck, he hurts. The spiderweb pattern across his windshield is kinda pretty though, sparkling like that in the sun. Blink.