As Paul rolled over to embrace Barry, their Nobel Prizes clanked together. "Prizes are mine," Paul murmured. He hiccuped and burped, the bleach reek of semen roiled forth. Reaching past Barry, Paul could feel the cold buttocks of Ezra. He dully recalled that he and Barry had fucked him to death at some point last night. He smiled at the memory and playfully slapped Ezra. Gases from his bloated corpse filled the room with putrefaction. Barry grinned in his sleep.
Paul grunted and strained himself out of bed. He kicked aside cutlery and broken china that had spilled off the overturn room service cart. A whimper from the the corner. A woman huddled in the fetal position, sobbing, a line of bruises marching along her ribs, barely visible in the gloom of the hotel room. Flashes of the previous night came back to him through the fog of cocaine and Presidential ballgargling. She was the whore the prize committee had sent up. The three of them had stripped her and Paul and Barry had held her over the service cart, trying to make Ezra fuck her. He could never get hard for a woman. They had beaten the whore, stuffed her cunt with geitost, and worked on Ezra instead. He had choked on vomit halfway through.
Paul washed his balls in the bathroom sink and squatted on the toilet. He was so full of shit is was almost half an hour until he realized there was no toilet paper, not even the cardboard and fish scale kind Europeans preferred. He slipped the Nobel Prize from around his neck and scraped his anus clean. He dropped it in the sink; the whore could lick it clean later.