Where: Bungalows @ The Resort
Time of Day: Just after sunrise
Open or Closed: CLOSED
Kurt Hummel was sitting out on the balcony of the bungalow he shared with old friend (and current fag hag), Quinn Fabray. A large photo album was lying open on the outdoor table and he swirled a thick gold band around the tip of his finger on top of the glossy page as he stared off out at the waves of the beach. With his other hand, he brought a glass of amber liquor with ice to his lips and took a long sip. He couldn't believe he had been on this damn island two years, and he couldn't believe he was stuck here.
The triple shot of straight scotch was strong, and burned his tongue and the back of his throat as he swallowed. The ice tinkled against the side of the glass as he set it back down on the table and then grabbed up a packet of cigarettes from nearby and was soon lighting one up, blowing a stream of smoke off to the side absentmindedly. Some days, he stupidly entertained the notion of getting out of this place, but it wasn't going to happen. Then he entertained the idea of someone coming here to him, but he had given up hope of that happening too. Initially, he had booked himself to the brim with appointments for fashion consults that day, but now it was here, he wasn't sure he could face trying to convince trumped up women with fake boobs that they looked fabulous in a string bikini, so he cancelled all of his appointments, pleading a terrible case of food poisoning. He would try and sleep the day away if he could, but his mind wouldn't switch off. So getting drunk and getting lung cancer was the next best thing.