My head hurts. It really, really hurts. 

Not that I am a stranger to headaches of course. Getting regularly smashed at the pub will do that to you. Still, this level of pain is really something else. Its like a drill boring into my brain. Drilling away, drilling away, drilling away. No relief, no reprieve, no rest. Just that blinding, overwhelming pain, preventing me from moving or even opening my eyes.

I smell the dubious bouquet of stale alcohol coupled with the rancid aroma of puke. Did I throw up on myself? God, when did I become so gross? My drinking was always kept under control. 

The headache finally begins to subside. Rather than a drill, it feels more like my head had become a massive bruise. I open my eyes and see an unfamiliar ceiling. An old ceiling fan hypnotically churns the air over me. I feel the surface I am lying on, an old mattress. At least I did not collapse in a gutter. That would really suck.  Looks like a kind soul let me crash for the night. Unless I am missing a kidney. That would suck even more. 

My joints pop as I stretch and heave myself off the mattress. Huh. No puke on my clothes. That's a relief. Wait are these even my clothes? And where is that stale booze smell coming from? Better slow down, take stock, get a handle on things. That's what you usually do when you wake up from a bender. Good advise all round too. 

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Clothes first. Examining the clothes on me, I realize its a bartender's uniform strongly smelling of alcohol. There's a name tag proudly displaying the word "GALLANT" in bright red colors. First of all, I am not a bartender, never was. Second, my name is not Gallant nor am I particularly gallant. I may be a man, but I get ridden rough shod by that bitch of a boss. If only there was actual riding involved. For all her faults, she's pretty hot. 

The room is really just a small bedroom. There's a wardrobe, a small desk coupled with a cushioned chair, a window (closed), the mattress I was lying on (no bed, no bed sheets even, what the hell), a plain wooden doors (closed), a sliding partition to what looks like the bathroom (also closed). Really classy. Like the minimalist approach to home decor. 

So I am in another man's clothes, having slept over in his home probably after going on a bender. Well things could be worse. At most I would have to apologize for making a nuisance of myself. If Mr GALLANT was really mad at me he would have dumped me out on the street instead of letting me stay in this room overnight. Hell, with the kind of business I probably gave him last night, what has he got to be mad about?

I stretch myself a few more times and walk towards the door. Well, time to make a move. Remember to look appropriately remorseful before my host. I wonder if he had taken the liberty to clean my clothes? 

Huh. Door's locked. Odd. There's no way to open it from the inside? I try knocking on it. No response. 

With cold sweat trickling down my back, I try the partition. Does not budge. Right. Don't panic. Slow down, take stock, get a handle on things. 

I am locked in an unknown room, wearing an unknown man's clothes, with no idea how I got there. 

I think I should start panicking right about now.