Half an hour of that terrible light and half a bottle of grouse made a head ache painful enough to make seven injections and scalpel wound to the face feel soft and fluffy. He sought heavy painkillers and heavier shades.

We see our hero now standing in front of his mangled dresser, the linoleum dark wood colored finish peeling off the cheap particle board innards, standing with his hand darting and hovering, fingers spread at odd angles, over his abundant and ugly array of novelty glasses making little "uh...uh---uhuhuh..." noises to himself.
"No....uh--uh...not the aviators I traded with a state trooper for a smooch... uh...not the peacock lenses.... er...clear polarized no good...uh...uh--uhhuh.... AH!" his mumbled crescendo peaked and he snatched up some pilot goggles with a cracked right lens he'd haggled some two-bit Korean pawn shop owner down to 35c for.

He snapped them onto his head like he had some great purpose and strode into his living room announcing to what remained of his world "Welcome disloyal, mottled and cheap subjects!" He applauds "and now a larger welcome for your mentally healthy, and all around amiaible and unforgiving king!" He poised ready to curtsy but the hall was silent and the glass shards from the skylight reflected little spots of color from the over head lights all around the walls.

"I don't remember breaking that.." he suggested accusingly as he walked beneath it and swiveled his head upwards, a pingpong ball dropping past his face.
"Uh -  I guess those table tennis freaks next door could have done it... but more likely it was god, one malignant **** that guy, while those little Korean bastards haven't harmed me in the least." 

He stooped to peer closer at the shards, seeing the familiar hole in his gnarled floor (having never been able to see down it even with the most intense keyring flashlight, yet receiving horrible odors from it's seemingly foul depths he had only surmised that the nightclub down stairs had a dead hooker storage located beneath his living room).
“Maybe someone shot a bullet through here? It could explain my broken skylight....Maybe someone wants to kill me?” He asked the room, then quickly grabbed his mouth and leaped onto the couch whispering “oh ****, the bastard probably heard me. Him and his toothless crony I'm going to yell “Steve!” at are probably on their hideous way up the trash stairs this minute.”
Remembering the hole was there before the light smashed he relaxed.
“Calm yourself...uh-uh...uhuh...Steve?... the bullet hole was probably long ago made... and some other poor pitiable sucker got his head smashed in by Steve long ago.”
A second of thought, and he jolts up in his seat staring at where someone else would sit in the armchair across his cigarette slathered coffee table with the built in ashtray that was rarely hit when flicking stubs and butts across the room.
“****...I just called myself Steve. Was I the lowly **** who climbed through the previous pitiable owner of this humble fly infested abode's window one hot summer night eighteen months ago only to smash his head apart with a metal road marker I found in alleyway with no remorse for the skylight I had probably broken with the shot fired by my colleage only moments ago?!”
...it would explain the odd stains in the wood...

“No. I'm not Steve... yes it all happened, but before I was here. I've nothing to worry about. In fact, the skylight was probably recently replaced when I first moved in. That's a good thing, right?” He assured himself, though the positive of the contrived situation some what diminished by the little glass shards decorating his floor.

“Must have been god then. But what for?”