Chapter twelve: Bless kop, Dead Heading, Wiley Kyote

It was ten o'clock and going for noon.

Rowland jolted awake to the sound of music as it bounced around the seemingly empty house just as the beat changed and it's high pitched echo caught his ear accompanied by the angelic screech of familiar vocals.

The now bright and flowing room's light hurt Rowland's eyes, he lay face down on Nick's dark genuine leather bound couch latched onto a throw pillow with his leg dangling over the seats, his slightly sandy shoes lay across the carpet. He wiped drool from his face as he lifted his chin slowly and the first thing he saw was the cap of a water bottle over the arm of the couch, his head felt like a minibus, and so he plunked it down feeling his back ache from the position he laid in while he thought about the fist in his dream that woke him up.