Author's Notes: And now for something completely different.

Largely based off of the song Holiday in Spain by Counting Crows.

Thanks to Nicholh2008 for the read-through and the go-ahead. She's amazing, folks. Show some love, yo.

Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or anything associated with it, nor do I own Holiday in Spain by the Counting Crows. The plot, however, is all mine.

Warnings: Strong, strong, strong language. Depressed Emmett. Drunk Emmett. But it's not funny. If that doesn't crumble your cookie, turn back now. If you're still here, it's gonna be a helluva ride.

Holiday in Spain

Chapter One: Got no place to go…

It’s midnight and I’m all-fucking-alone because I just stumbled out of a bar and I’m drunk off my ass and they took my license away a month ago because I got caught driving drunk.

Again.

Bitches.

So I’m stuck with just me and my drunk off my ass self.

And my (ex) girlfriend kicked me out a week ago (or was it two weeks ago?) and I’m a fucking loser.

Or so she says.

Bitch.

And so I have no-fucking-where to go, not unless I want to drag my drunk ass down to that fucking shelter and there’s no way in hell I’m going there.

A man has his pride, you know.

And what fucking little of it I have left I have to fucking hold so fucking close to my heart it isn’t even fucking close to funny.

And so tonight I’ll probably spend curled up in some fucking stinking sewer somewhere and I’ll wake up smelling like shit and hell all at once and I’ll just go drink again until they kick me out because I can’t put any more on my tab.

Bitches.

I used to have a job, you know. Yeah, yeah, hard to believe and all that shit, but I did. I was a lawyer. I was successful and I made money and I had a gorgeous girlfriend and life was fucking beautiful. But then my dad died and my mom died and things changed.

And I started drinking and you know the story.

Lost my job, because lawyers have to show up to work every now and again. Bitches fired me because I stopped coming in and stopped calling and stopped trying. And lost my girlfriend because drunk off my ass isn’t attractive. Bitch broke up with me because I stopped coming home and stopped calling and stopped trying.

You fucking finish the rest.

A man can only take so much before he cracks and I cracked and this is what’s left.

This is what’s left.

It’s Monday-fucking-morning and I drag myself out from under the overpass and try to look somewhat presentable for an interview.

Gotta pay my tab, you know how it is.

And they won’t even hire me to flip burgers—you can see it in their eyes, the ”no” before they’ve even opened their mouth to fucking lie to you about having some goddamned potential or whatever.

Bitches.

And I’ll drag myself out of the McDonald’s and down to the Burger King and then to the Taco Bell and then to the fucking car wash where they’ll hire me for a day or two to spray down the Mercedes Benzes before they go into the Automatic.

It’s four bucks an hour and I figure if I work two eight hour days, I’ll have enough to pay off my tab and then some.

So that’s what I do Monday and Tuesday and Tuesday they pay me and we go our separate ways; they go home to their wives and their babies and I go home to my bar.

Being sober blows hardcore, because I can remember shit when I’m sober. So I drink away the memories and spend Wednesday on a bench on the sidewalk drunk off my ass before Mr. Policeman-With-The-Stick-Up-His-Ass taps me on the shoulder and tells me I’ve got to move because I’m fucking “Disturbing the peace.”

And all I say is “Bitch, I’m so fucking drunk I’m seeing three or four of you and that’s three or four too many. I’m not hurting anyone—leave me the fuck alone.”

Which is how I ended up in a prison cell for twenty-four fucking hours.

Fuck that, at least it’s warm and dry and I can shower and eat.

But fuck it to hell, now I’m sober again and the memories come pouring in and fuck this shit I’ll sleep it off.

But sleep doesn’t come and I’m stuck in this fucking hole in the fucking ground and I’m fucking sober.

Bitches.

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