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All My Friends Say
You know I don’t remember a thing
But they say I sure was raisin’ some cain
I was a rock star, party hard
Gettin’ over you comeback kid
Hey I musta did
What all my friends say
Jordan woke slowly, with a dull, niggling headache that just wanted to tell him all its problems, a whining thing that suggested he’d drank too much last night.
Last night. Last night, he had gone to The 51 Cards, because even if the news wanted to scream about people who thought they were Athena and Thor, he didn’t think it was worth not drinking over. He’d sat down next to a lovely girl with the best tattoos he’d seen in a long time. He’d ordered a drink.
He opened his eyes. The light was dim, and he couldn’t see much, but the shapes of the shadows suggested it wasn’t his room at home. So far, no surprises. He reached out one arm, and found the edge of the bed. The other arm found a nightstand, and nobody in bed with him. That was a bit of a surprise, but not horrible. He sat up, and swung his feet over the edge of the bed.
Even in the faint light, he could see that something was wrong. His feet were fuzzy, blurry. Was his vision off? Drinking enough to kill his memory could do that. He reached for the nightstand, found no lamp, but there was something… yes, a flashlight.
The bright LED bulbs revealed the room to be tiny, more of a cube than a room, with no furniture but the bed and the nightstand, no windows, and no discernible door. More immediately important, they revealed that his feet were missing.
“The hell!” The shout didn’t make his head hurt more, but it did echo unpleasantly. He’d woken up missing clothes before (not this time), his wallet (still there), his pride and his virginity (still missing), but never before had he looked down and seen mist where his feet were supposed to be.
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