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[Glacies]

Christmas parties are the worst. The worst. In fact, you don't even know how your friends talked you into going to the latest once, since the three previous years had been awful, but this year, well, it was different. It must have been different. Did you get drunk? How did you get here? Where are your shoes? These are the sort of important questions you are faced with. Is this what being hungover feels like? You've never drunk before. Oh no. Did you do something wrong? You feel the oddest guilty sensation lurking under the malaise.

Your head is pounding, and you're sitting on the floor leaned against the base of a couch. There is an old fashioned TV from the seventies sitting on a table in one corner of the room, a solid looking coffee table, and a telephone sitting on a phone book on another stand in the opposite corner. There is a large picture window, and orange streetlight streams through the open window. It is after dark. Or still dark. You aren't sure. There's a pair of repulsive striped pillows on the couch as well as a bundle of red cloth.

There are doors leading off to the WEST, EAST and SOUTH.

You are wearing a pair of boxer briefs, black dress pants and a dark blue dress shirt, all redolent of stale sweat. You are barefoot.

What now?
>_

[AoshimaMichio]

Call mom.

[H4zardZ1]

Test the TV.

[Cheesecake]

Call mom.

+1. Then find our shoes.

[Glacies]

Call mom.

+1. Then find our shoes.

You know, that's a pretty good idea. You grab the receiver and cradle it against your ear. Hmm. What was her number again?

...Crap. You know what, you don't even remember who you're calling. Much less what their number is. Maybe later...?

Doesn't look like your shoes are anywhere in here. A quick rummage under the couch and through the cushions reveals a remote, however.

Test the TV.

The TV flicks on and a news anchor, in a quiet, fuzzy voice, drones on about political candidates you neither know about, nor care to know about. The remote is one of those curiously clunky models that dates back to before your birth. Which was...You know what you could go for right now? A nice bottle full of acetylsalicylic acid.

Faint whispering comes from the western door.

What now?
>_

[Cheesecake]

Follow the plothook, obviously! To the door!

[AoshimaMichio]

No no no, ignore it! Call local emergency phone number!

[Glacies]

No no no, ignore it! Call local emergency phone number!

That's the ticket! Emergency services! They'll know what to do.

Beep-boop-beep. The phone rings only once before being picked up. The operator is a woman. Sounds older, ever so slightly harried. A slightly robotic, practiced edge to the way she rattles off the hook.

"Graham county 911, where is your emergency?"

There is an awkward pause. Graham county? Where the heck is Graham? ... What do you tell the operator?

[Cheesecake]

"I think I've had an accident. I don't remember anything."

[Glacies]

"I think I've had an accident. I don't remember anything."

"Okay. Do you, do you know where you are?"

[Cheesecake]

"Um, no. That comes with amnesia, if I remember correctly."

[Glacies]

"Um, no. That comes with amnesia, if I remember correctly."

Her voice is clearly bored and irritated, as if she's dismissed this call as a prank.

"Well, sir, it looks like your number isn't paired to an address in our system. You don't...know the address? Can you find it out? Do you have a wallet with an ID in it, anything?"

[Cheesecake]

Check wallet for ID. Check if we have a wallet at all.

[Glacies]

Check wallet for ID. Check if we have a wallet at all.

Pockets. Right. ...Damn it. Nope. You have...lint. Seventy five cents. Wait. Fifty cents American. Twenty five cents Canadian. You're not sure if the dispatcher would be interested in that. Where did your damn wallet go?

An exasperated sigh comes out of the receiver, stifled just enough that the dispatcher retains plausible deniability.

"Sir, are you on any kind of medication?"

[H4zardZ1]

"No."
*Shakes*