[ Harry chooses his curse words carelessly, and strings them together in new and creative ways. He hasn't been this hung over, since -- well, for a long time. Naturally, he'd rather not drink himself into oblivion, especially with a high-stress occupation that practically begs him to drown his problems in the bottom of a bottle. Can't. Won't do. Instead, he glowers in the direction of the blinds, finding that everything is so much more tolerable when the light has been dealt with. Gradually, he extracts himself from under the table and fumbles about until he can find his clothing - only giving up his makeshift hat when he has to pull his shirt over his head. He chases the pills with the provided water, and gets to his feet in an ungainly, wobbly fashion. You know, like normal people do when they're suffering a hangover. Not dressed like it's a funeral. ]

Say what? [ The world slows for a moment, with Harry clutching his temple and staring at John like he's just grown two heads and the second one isn't spitting bullshit at him. For a moment, the wizard looks... disappointed. Him, of all people. Then the words and their meaning and the tone catches up with him in one fell swoop, and Harry's disorientation turns into a scowl. He opens his mouth, and a million-and-one things are on the tip of his tongue to say, but the only thing that comes out is: ] Yeah. I guess that just about covers it, doesn't it?

[ Harry simmers, and goes to hunt down his shoes, bouncing across the floor as he yanks them on and laces them up. Grabs his duster angrily. Shoves Marcone's jacket back into his hands and slaps the twenty bucks in his pocket down on top of the wadded folds. ] For the Thai. Get your damn accounting division to make change.

[ It's about time to make like a hurricane and slam the doors behind him. ]