Bone Gnawer:
Greeting Helios

  Gaudy beads, strung together like hopes and dreams,
Cast aside in the gutter, as precious moments forgotten
In a place called New Orleans

klaxon was going off somewhere all too close, and every light had become a one-million-candlepower spotlight pointed straight at his retinas.  The alley reeked of urine and grease and far-off stagnation, and the urge to vomit was taking on a life of its own. Shaking his head had immediately registered as a bad idea, and as he picked his prone form up from the cardboard and bead-foam debris, he once again uttered the ritual words he spoke after every such night:
 "That's it. N'more Night train. Evah. Again."
 He slowly took stock of his surroundings, realizing he was, indeed, quite far from his usual squat in the French Quarter. Had the Revel really been that extensive? He looked himself over as if that would conjure up the full memory of last night in his pulpy, soggy-feeling head. His only clues were the abundance of dark dried splotches of ... something ... on his bare skin, and the nasty, icky-sticky black substance caked under his nails. Bringing his fingers up to his nose, he smelled, inhaling deeply ... and grimaced as his stomach finally won the battle against his will. Last night's dinner, as well as the remnants of his binge, sprayed in vibrant hues to match the krylon graffiti that peppered the alley walls. 
 "Unhhhhhg ...."

is gait became steadier as he distanced himself from last night's bed, and little by little pieces of the night before were repairing themselves like ice melting backwards ... and the more his mind became his again, the less he liked what he remembered. He needed to find someone who could piece it back together again, someone who he could trust. Great, he mused, that leaves a whole lot of options.
 But first things first. Stopping to take a shower in one of the small fountains he passed took immediate priority. More looks, incredulous and hostile, were shot his way. Great Mother, don't they ever get tired of gawking? he thought miserably; his headache was making his normally even temperament slide way outta whack. 
 He quickened his efforts in the anticipation of police intervention, and was well on his way by the time the blue-shirts arrived at the site of his bath.
 Okay, he thought, that's out of the way - now what?
 The nagging suspicion in his gut sounded out like a sentry soldier: Michel. Michel will know.
 He looked at a clock in a store window display he passed and groaned softly ... he had a while to wait; four hours plus till the Velvet Collar opened its doors to the great unwashed. Oh well, he had nothing else to do ...
 "'Scuse me, mistah ... you spaih som' change?"