You can't handle the truth

The truth is, I hired these guys because they're bad, not in spite of it. I knew we were heading out of town, out of state, working outside of our field, probably with a wealth of potential for graft, debauchery and general moral debasement, as well as fine dining and beverages.

At the time, I was enjoying a beverage on occasion. Kevin's a prolific boozehound and troubleboy Jason, well, he's that classic combination of fucked-up childhood, poor self esteem and pharmacologically enhanced mental derangement. It's a recipe for plenty to go wrong. Or right. Or both.

August in New Orleans is hot. It feels like a steam hose is spraying you in the face at 8 am. By 9pm, one is coated in salt residue from dried sweat that has reconstituted many times over. We'd wrap, go back to the hotel to shower, and head out for dinner before the kitchens closed, usually 10pm. Finished by 11:30 or so, we'd head into the city to walk dinner off.

About night three, we ventured into a strip club, and this is probably the point things became untenable.