Hungover

Samson stirred as he felt his eyes flutter awake. His vision was blurry. His ears were ringing. His head was throbbing. "Ugh, Whazzuh?" he grumbled. "Where am I? What day is it?" He rolled over slightly, his gut flipping as he almost fell to the floor, the motion fully jolting him awake. He realised he was laying on the sofa in his uncle's living room. He vaguely recalled going to visit for his annual Christmas Eve soirée. But he would have normally left by the end of the night. Did something happen?

"Ugh, my head..." Samson rubbed the top of his head, only mildly concerned to feel a vast expanse of skin in place of his hair. Did someone shave his head, and then stick the hairs to his face, he wondered as he scratched his fuzzy cheeks. His attention was then drawn to his clothes, a familiar red costume to some. But why was he dressed as Santa? The myriad of empty bottles littered on the ground maybe answered several of his questions, except he wasn't much of a drinker. He pulled himself upwards, groaning as it only exacerbated the aching in his head. "Ugh," he groaned. "What the hell happened last night?"

----------

"Why are we even including this loser? He doesn't know anything about parties."

"Hey, I do too!"

"I don't mean what you learned in your picture books, Sam-DUMB!"

Samson crossed his arms and pouted as his cousins laughed at him. So he liked to read books. That wasn't a problem. He knew when to put the books down and socialise like any other person. But his cousins had never liked him. Not since the bed-wetting incident of '19. They only ever saw him as inferior to them.

Not that the adults ever seemed to notice. Even now, they all gathered in the kitchen gossiping, and leaving him with his mean cousins. All but one grown-up. His uncle Fred tutted as he came into the room to check on the kids. "Leave off him, he's a sensitive kid." Yeah, like that was going to help... He crouched down to Samson, Santa hat in hand. "Cheer up, Skipper," he said as he slammed the hat on his head with a big grin. 

Samson wanted to pull the hat off immediately, but something made him stop. Was it the look on his family's faces? Or something else? He just wanted to be accepted amongst his peers. And if that meant letting loose once in a while, it was a sacrifice he had to make. But how? There wasn't an immediate solution. "I wish I could be the life of the party," he grumbled under his breath.

"You, the life of the party??" 

Samson froze up, he thought he'd been too quiet to hear. But his eldest cousin was standing right above him, mouth agape in a mean sneer. 

"Oh my God, he actually said that! Poor widdle baby Sammy wants to be popular! OMG, that is so embarrassing..."

"I'm not a baby!" Samson deflected, but it was no use. The heckling began, as his cousins surrounded him. 

"Widdle baby Sammy! Widdle baby Sammy!"

He couldn't take it any longer. Samson stormed out of the room with tears stinging his eyes. So what if he was the youngest. So what if got good grades, and played puzzles. He could still be a party person! He just needed the right fuel...

 found himself standing in front of the main room. Nobody was allowed inside until it was gift giving time. But Samson had no time, he had to be the life of the party now. He looked left and right, then ducked inside. The tree was the main centerpiece inside, beautifully decked out with shimmering lights and ornament. Underneath, all of the presents were carefully separated by each family. He didn't want to be a party pooper by messing with the gifts, but he knew his uncle kept something very important close by on the holidays.

After a small search, Samson found what he was seeking; the holiday booze. "Not the life of the party, huh?" He grumbled as he picked one up. "We'll see who's the star now..." It was heavier than expected, and much darker than he'd imagined whiskey to be. But he unscrewed the top, and brought the bottle to his lips. He almost gagged as the stench of alcohol hit his nostrils, but he couldn't stop now. You have to break a few rules if you want people to like you. He tilted the bottle back, and gulped a single swig before gasping for breath. "Oh sweet baby Jesus, that's good!" He growled, his voice dropping a full octave from beginning to end. "What the," he mumbled. "My voice is deep? My voice is DEEP!" He chuckled to himself, who knew alcohol could do that?

Having broken the ice, and nothing bad had happened, Samson proceeded to down half of the bottle in one go, the pure alcohol burning his throat and insides. But instead of crying or throwing up, he could only laugh. It felt familiar to him, as if he'd done this before... In fact, he was beginning to feel hot. He yanked off his sweater, noting just how tight it felt beforehand, and left his tank top on. He glanced at his bare arms, and frowned. There were loads of tiny dark hairs all over them. Where did those come from? Curious, he lifted up his top to find even more hairs around his bellybutton and creeping up towards his chest. Those weren't there before. And had he gotten taller? He grinned as he stared at his lithe fingers. If this is what it was like to get drunk, then he was having a good time.

With another swig of the bottle, he had downed the entire whiskey, shaking out the last few drops for good measure. He dropped the bottle on the ground, and wiped his mouth, feeling a peculiar furry surrounding. He stroked his face, feeling his dense beard with good intentions. With his other hand, he shoved it into his pants with a grin. He could feel his cock getting harder, growing longer and thicker within his slippery grip. "This sure is making me feel real good..." he growled as he proceeded to pull his pants down slightly. He tilted his head in admiration of his swollen genitals. "Damn, I'm hung as fuck," he moaned softly as he proceeded to pump his fist up and down in quick succession. He scratched at his hairy chest, and flicked his nipples as he allowed himself to fall into pleasure. As he laid back in his chair. His hat slipped off of his head, along with all of his hair. "Fucking whiskey gave me a beard and made me bald," he chuckled as he stroked his scalp. "Making me a fucking manly man! Life of the party, center of attention..." He gasped as he thrust his hips, his cock spewing cloudy cum without warming.

Samson laid panting in his seat, his seed seeping into his top. When a stray knock on the door sounded, and the ensuing inebriation was paused by a sudden awareness of his surroundings. He jumped to his feet, and pulled his pants back up. What had he done? He'd drank a whole bottle of alcohol to himself, his uncle's favorite too! Not to mention cranking his hog without a care in the world. He was going to get into so much trouble! He looked around for somewhere to hide, only to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He stared at the wiry man he had become, taking in the hairs that sprouted across his chest, the light that bounced off his bald head. How was he going to be the life of the party looking like this!?

The door flung open, and in came his uncle. "Uh, F-Bomb! wait. I can-"

"Skipper?" The man sighed with a shake of the head. "Why aren't you in costume? The kids're getting impatient out there!"

"Wait, I... They're waiting for me?" Samson asked, any previous concern about not being recognised flying out the window. They were mocking him mere moments ago, and now they wanted to see him?

"Of course, Mr. Claus," Fred replied with a wink. "Who else is going to deliver their presents? It's not like you haven't done this every single year."

"Huh?" He looked to his left by instinct, where he had tossed his christmas sweater aside. Now there was a red jacket splayed atop a silk sack filled with small presents. A bold red that paired with the fur-lined pants he was wearing. He picked it up along with his Santa hat, and swung it over his shoulders. It fit him like a glove. Then he turned to the mirror again. He almost cracked a grin when he saw himself. It kind of suited him. Like if Santa were half the age he should be.

In fact, it was all coming back to him. This was a tradition he'd started when his first niece was born over a decade ago. Back when he still had a full head of hair, and the beard was fake. Now it was practically a family tradition. He'd dress up like Santa to hand out his presents. Except he himself wasn't even born that long ago, was he? They weren't even his niblings, they were his cousins. Then again, he was dressed like Santa, and these were a pile of gifts...

He grumbled as he picked up the sack, and waited for the kids to enter the room. They didn't deserve any presents the way they'd been treating him that night. Why did he have to give them anything? Especially now he was older than all of them. Maybe even older than his own parents... No, he was the youngest of his brothers, despite appearances. Still in his thirties for a few more years. Still trying to cling to his bachelor status, though maybe it was time to settle down and have kids of his own? The howls of the ungrateful brats running down the hall was enough to crush that fleeting thought.

"Alright, you little monsters. Here comes Sammy Claus!"

One by one, Samson pulled out the small presents and handed them to his niblings. They were nothing exciting, just some imported candies. But it was the tradition that kickstarted the passing and opening of gifts around the room. He collapsed into a chair, cracking open a cold beer and chugging it back. So much for life of the party, he was the center of attention for all of five minutes. The present frenzy died down, the crazed brats had been sated, and had gone back to their own party room. Samson was just about ready to join them when someone piped up, "Aren't you forgetting something, Sammy Claus?"

"Huh?"

All of a sudden, the sack felt heavy once more. Samson carefully carried the sack over to the table, and placed it atop. Then one by one, he pulled out several bottles of booze to an ever increasing cheer from the other adults. His last surprise was a hefty bottle of champagne that he immediately uncorked, and poured into eagerly waiting flute glasses. Now the real party started.

The music was pumping out Christmas classics mixed with contemporary party hits. The guests were up and dancing, and laughing, and singing well into the night, with Samson right there in the center of it all, playing up his role as the party host. Eventually, the boring parents with their boring kids had to say goodbye. Then the "responsible" ones decided to call it a night. Finally, around 2am, the last stragglers waved goodbye to Fred and Samson as their Uber pulled up. "C'mon, F-Bomb! We're going all through the night!" Samson hiccuped to his brother, forcibly dragging him back to the dance floor. An all-nighter that lasted all of two minutes as the drunkard collapsed on the sofa.

 ----------

Samson grumbled to himself, massaging his temples. Just how much had he drank last night? Not any more than he usually did at parties. Was he getting too old for this shit? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He was only 36, that's still young, right? It had to be that whiskey he'd started the night with. Giving him weird vivid dreams that intertwined with reality... 

His headache only seemed to worsen as Fred trotted into the room with an out-of-tune song in his heart. "So here it is, Merry Christmas! Everybody's having fun!"

"Ungh..."

"Not everyone, it seems." Fred gave his brother a sympathy pat on the shoulder before rummaging through the leftover mess from the previous night. "The ol' curse of the hangover huh? It's humbling to see even you still suffer with the malady. I thought you'd be immune by now."

"I wish," Samson grumbled as he threw his jacket off, frowning as he caught a whiff of himself. Sweat and alcohol, a vulgar mix. "I need some hair of the dog, so to speak..."

"Maybe this will help." Fred chucked over a cigar wrapped in a bow. "Your Christmas cigar, m'lord."

Samson grumbled in gratitude as he dug for a lighter in his pants. Yet after one puff of tobacco, he could feel his hazy thoughts get a little clearer. He grunted to himself pleasantly. He hadn't had a smoke since the whole party had begun. He'd been trying to cut back, and had even managed to limit himself to half a pack of cigarettes a day, but it was difficult when he needed a nictotine fix. Especially at times like this.

After a few contemplative moments with his cigar, Samson got up from his chair and joined his brother at the dining table. 

"So... Weird question. But have you made a Christmas wish before?"

"Not recently, no," Fred replied. "Why? Did three ghosts visit last night?"

"Shut up," Samson growled, scratching at his unshaven face. "I just had this weird dream where I was this real swotty, nerdy kid that all the other kids mocked for being a baby. Then I made a wish, and I became, well, me. But the weird part is it all feels so real, like it actually happened..."

"Well, you've never been a nerd, I didn't even know you could read. You were more likely to be the bully than the bullied growing up. And no kid would willingly wish to be a cueball, alcoholic dock worker."

"Please, don't hold back..."

"Hey, it's not my fault you were bald by thirty, while I got the good hair genes." Fred tousled his shiny, luscious hair for good measure. "First-born privileges, baby."

"That's not how it works," he grumbled as he rubbed the back of his skull.

"I'm just saying, it's just that time of year for weird dreams about looking back on your past self, remembering when you were a kid, and still believed in Santa Claus. But after a few drinks, it'll be yet another hazy memory. Speaking of, it's bloody Mary time."

"Actually, I think I should lay off the drink for a while if it's making me think such stupid stuff..." Samson said with a sigh. He stroked and tugged on his beard in thought. His brother was right, of course. He didn't exactly have the greatest life outside of partying. He fell into his line of work after dropping out of high school, and never really attempted to find anything else. The pay was decent enough, even if he still had to mooch off his older, more successful brother. He was the only one of his friends still unmarried, and it was difficult trying to maintain the bachelor party lifestyle without his pals joining him. Maybe enough was enough. 

"That's it," Samson declared. "I need to make a change in life. Next year, I'm doing Dry January!"

"Damn, Skipper!" Fred chuckled. "Are you sure it wasn't three ghosts scaring you into sobriety?" He clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly. "But it's New Year's next week. We can't have you sober on the biggest night of the year. You're the life of the party, man. Without you, there is no party!"

"Well, you're right there," Samson agreed. "Maybe just one more..."