Get Off Mah Lawn! [P/NK]

Kozai woke to pain in his head. He concluded straightaway that he'd had a bit too much to drink last night, though he hadn't remembered all the details yet. The man had been through this whole song and dance enough to know what had happened without being able to recall anything about it. Rolling out of bed, his body met with the cold embrace of the floor beneath.

Fresh air.

Water.

He stumbled toward the window, his hand grasping for the latch. Behind him, the radio (he must have left it on) issued forth the words of some stupid adjutant being interviewed about some shitty foreign conflict. Elitist fuck. He'd get what was coming to him someday.

After a few seconds of fumbling, he got the window open, and his face was blessed (or blasted, perhaps) with the mid-day afternoon air.

Two breaths. That's all he needed. Some old remnant of a system long unused sputtered within him, and he felt this pain slowly fade to an almost unnoticeable throb. His hand reached for a pencil, seized on one, and he started to scrawl a note on a sheet of paper while he whistled for a messenger bird.

Assmunchers,

Get me a goddamn therapist. I'm getting back into the field, whether you like it or not.

- Kozai

P.S. No old fucks. Get me a milennial, or kys

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