A very unpleasant bongo beat reverberated off the walls inside his head like a series of explosions making his attempt to stand anything but a pleasurable ordeal. “Foutu,” Matt screamed, falling against the dumpster for support. Queasy, disoriented, with an acid taste of rising vomit, he struggled to remain standing and tightened his grip on the dumpster. The cold air splashed against his sweaty brow, and he gulped it in, but its distasteful, putrid smell caused him to gag, and his stomach&rs...