The silence in Dieter’s suite wasn't just quiet, it was heavy, vibrating with the rhythmic thrum of a shared, world-class migraine. You groaned, the sound feeling like a sandpaper scrub against your throat. As you shifted, the silk sheets felt unnervingly smooth against way too much of your skin.

You blinked your eyes open, squinting against the aggressive California sunshine stabbing through a gap in the blackout curtains. To your left, a heap of limbs and dark hair stirred. Dieter was face-down, sprawled across the king-sized bed like a chalk outline at a crime scene, spectacularly naked and clutching a decorative velvet pillow as if his life depended on it.

"Dieter," you croaked, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through a gravel pit. "Dieter, I think I’m dead. Please tell me I’m dead so I don’t have to feel my brain pulse anymore."

He let out a muffled whimper into the pillow, one hand emerging to wave vaguely in the air. "If you’re dead, I’m the ghost haunting you. Don’t move. The air is too loud."

You managed to sit up, clutching the duvet to your chest, and finally took in the state of the room. It didn't just look like a party had happened; it looked like a small, glitter-themed natural disaster had made landfall. A floor lamp was snapped in half. There was an entire pineapple, skin intact, floating in the center of the jacuzzi tub. Your clothes and his were a breadcrumb trail of denim and lace leading from the door to the balcony.

"What did we drink?" you asked, rubbing your temples. "And why is there a traffic cone in the mini-bar?"

Dieter finally rolled over, squinting at the ceiling with a look of profound betrayal. "I remember the tequila. I remember the table dancing. After that... it’s just neon shapes and regrets." He sat up, completely unbothered by his state of undress, and reached for the bedside phone. "I need grease. I need enough sodium to preserve a mummy."

He ordered everything on the room service menu, double cheeseburgers, truffle fries, pancakes, and a gallon of orange juice, while you scrambled to find a discarded robe. He eventually threw on a monogrammed hotel robe himself, though he didn't bother tying it particularly well.

Twenty minutes later, a sharp knock at the door sent a spike of pain through both your skulls. Dieter shuffled to the door, looking every bit the disheveled movie star, and swung it open.

The room service attendant, a young guy who looked like he’d seen it all, wheeled in the silver cart. He paused, his eyes darting from the snapped lamp to the glitter ground into the carpet, then to the two of you, pale, shaky, and radiating a massive 'morning-after' energy.

As he set the tray down, he suppressed a grin.

"Everything you ordered, Mr. Bravo. Also, I brought extra electrolytes. Management thought you might need them."

"Bless you," Dieter muttered, fumbling for a tip. "We had a... few people over last night. Sorry about the, uh, decor."

The attendant chuckled, heading back toward the door. "Oh, the party was legendary, sir. Everyone was talking about it in the lobby. But man, you two must have really kept it going after the guests left at midnight. That’s when the neighbors started reporting the 'thumping and furniture moving.'"

The door clicked shut. You and Dieter froze, bacon mid-air.

"The party ended at midnight?" you whispered, looking at the wreckage of the room.

Dieter looked at the broken lamp, then at the bed, then back at you, a slow, horrified smirk spreading across his face. "Oh god. We did this ourselves, didn't we?"