Stranded Hound: A Helluva Boss Fanfiction

Day 6

Jim woke up the following morning, once again the first to do so. He makes his way into the living room, into the kitchen to the far end. He opens the fridge probably a little too loud for the time of the morning. He hears movement from behind him on the couch, hearing Blitz at long last wake up with a groan. The imp sluggishly wakes up, still lying down, placing his hands on his head; "Fuuuuuck..."

"You alright there, matey," Jim asks, eating a bit of fruit he found.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, just s-swell," Blitz groggily replies, a headache overpowering him; "Fuck me, it feels like the room is spinning!"

Jim shrugs: "Oh well, serve you right for drinking that bloody cocktail you made with my expensive drinks."

"How about fuck you," Blitz remarked back, smirking through his migraine.

Jim brings him a tall glass of water; "Drink this instead and shut up, how about that?"

Blitz slowly gets up, grabbing the glass and drinking it slowly. Jim, meanwhile, brings his half-eaten breakfast to his lounge chair, facing the couch this time. He properly examines the odd specimen groggily slurring on the couch; his skin is scarlet, patched with white, small spikes protruding from his arms. In short, the specimen on his couch was a mess of black, red, and white.

"You know, mate, you truly are an ugly motherfucker," Jim remarks bluntly, shaking his head at the fact that this thing actually existed and was, to his "luck", crashed on his couch with what the owner of the aforementioned couch could imagine was a hangover never matched by anyone else.

"Yeah, and you're- you're a... fucking- fuck-head-looking fucker," Blitz slurred heavily, before placing his head back onto the couch.

Jim shakes his head once more, looking outside at the sun rising. The moderate heat of the environment around them translated into a light fog in the tree line. If he didn't have to watch what this drunken bastard on the couch was about to do in his home, he'd have gone out to walk amongst it.

"Well, look, to be completely honest with you, mate, I don't think you're in any state to go pig shooting today, OR to go home. I think I recall both your daughter and I telling you very explicitly to not drink it," Jim recalled, before being rudely interrupted with hand waving and very unintelligible slurring before the specimen turned around on the couch and briefly fell back asleep.

A silhouette emerges from the hallway, into the living room. Loona looks over the couch to find Blitz still unbelievably hung over, curled in the couch in a pitiful yet hilarious position. She smirks, shaking her head, before making her way to the kitchen to fetch herself something to eat.

"How long do you reckon he'll be this way before, you know, he snaps out of it," Jim asks the 'hound, a little frustrated about having to deal with this.

Loona shrugs, chewing a few slices of ham she found, leaning over the kitchen bench; "I don't know... I say give it a few hours. He does stupid shit like this, but he gets over it soon enough."

Jim sighs, giving his house guest the benefit of the doubt. A short minute or so later, at long last, Blitz gets up from his drunken state and sits upright, trying to regain focus of his surroundings. He clammers over to the kitchen sink, splashing his face with water, blinking a couple of times, before gaining some resemblance of functionality by demanding to Jim that they go shooting right at that instant. Jim didn't take this seriously, and nor did Loona, a bystander in the conversation, who was asked numerous times by her parental figure to 'back him up' on the claim that 'he was fine'.

"Okay, look," Jim capitulated; "If you want to go hunting, you're going to have to get rid of that migraine, alright? We can do it later this morning, on the condition that anything that just so happens to happen to you is in no way my fault, and that I've got a witness over here to back me up."