Ah, the hangover. There's nothing in the world quite like it. Waking up in a strange place with your head feeling like it's in a vice, trying to remember what happened in the past few hours but drawing a complete blank…it's certainly a unique experience. But "unique" doesn't go far enough in describing what happened to me. My situation was the kind of thing so bizarre you only experienced it once, 'cause you'd sooner kill yourself than go through it twice.

The moment I woke up in that bathroom stall, I knew I wasn't suffering from some run-of-the-mill hangover. You see, instead of having a plain old headache, it felt as if John Henry himself was driving a railroad spike into my skull. I was genuinely hoping for someone to come along and decapitate me; I'd be dead, but at least I'd be free of my throbbing cranium. I instinctively ran my hand through my hair and discovered the source of my woe: a gigantic bump on top of my head, practically raising my height by a foot. As I brought my hand down, I couldn't help but notice the rusty patches dotting my skin: dried blood, yet I didn't have an open wound anywhere on my body. Isn't it a relief to know that the blood you're coated in came from somebody else, not you? My left arm was sore as well, with a dull ache that grew into an intense pang as I regained consciousness. I rolled up my sleeve and, lo and behold, found my pallid skin contrasted by a swollen needle mark. And that wasn't the worst of it, either.

To top it all off, I had one hell of a case of memory loss. It was worse than anything you could get from an ordinary hangover. Not only did I have no memory of recent events, I had no memory at all! I couldn't even remember my goddamn name! Full-blown amnesia. It was the hangover from hell: waking up with a bump on my head, blood on my hand, a needle mark on my arm, and not a clue in my mind. Was I a lucky guy or what?

I leaned against the stall wall, massaging my temples with clammy fingers before pulling myself up. Surprisingly, I kept my cool, although you can probably chalk that up to being too disoriented to panic. In lieu of going into hysterics like a normal person, I decided there was only one thing to do: find out what had happened to me. My investigation was fated to begin in a bathroom stall. Classy.

A dark gray trench coat hung in front of me, dangling from a hook on the stall door. Was it mine? I slipped it on; it fit every contour of my body perfectly. Not a bad looking coat. Apparently, I had a good sense of fashion before my memory was shot.

Both coat pockets felt like they were holding something, so I took inventory of what was inside. I found a pack of cigarettes, some quarters, and a few items that seemed out of place: a fancy gold-plated lighter, a nice leather wallet, a handkerchief, and a pair of sunglasses. Both the wallet and the handkerchief proudly bared the letters "J.S." in gold thread. Did that stuff belong to me? Was I J.S.? I doubted it. I didn't know who I was, but my gut instincts told me I wasn't the type of guy who would go for that hoity-toity crap, much less have the money to buy it.

Something else hanging from the stall door caught my eye. It was a holstered revolver, a .38 special. I produced the gun from the worn leather holster and spun open the cylinder; three of the bullets were just empty shells. Someone had fired that baby, and my stomach sank with the realization that it could very well have been me.

Some fine mess I was in. I lit a cig with the lighter and took a couple of long drags, savoring every ounce of smoke. So sue me. They're my lungs, and it's my right to screw 'em up if I want to. Besides, I had blood on my hands, no memory, and a gun packing three spent casings. If there was ever a time when I needed the consolation of sweet lady tobacco, it was then.

Crushing out the cigarette under my shoe, I holstered the revolver and slung it around my shoulder. It still had three unused bullets in it: bullets that I knew might be needed soon. I opened the stall door and attempted to walk out, promptly discovering I was barely capable of moving around. I was quite the spectacle, a grown man stumbling like a sailor who hadn't gotten his sea legs yet.

If you told me that, somewhere on this planet, there was a dirtier bathroom than the one I was in, I'd call you crazy. I don't think a janitor ever stepped foot in that room. The grime that coated the walls in there must have been at least an inch thick; the place really did look like shit. Not surprising when you considered its purpose.

Above the sink hovered an ancient mirror, smudged by what must have been decades of service in that cesspool. I checked my reflection; the face that stared back at me was unfamiliar. He was quite the handsome stranger. If only I knew his name.

I let my shaky feet guide me out of the bathroom and into a desolate tavern. Beams of moonlight shined into the room though plate-glass windows, bathing the wooden floor in grey. I walked across the floorboards, steadying myself with the rail along the counter, and pulled on the front door to see if I could reach the streets. No such luck; locked. Didn't really matter, though. It's not like I had the foggiest notion of where to go.

A shot glass on the counter caught my eye, gleaming in the moonlight like a booze-scented diamond. Stamped in red capital letters along its side were the words "JOE'S BAR." So that was the name of the place? "Joe's Bar?" Boy, that Joe was one creative fellow.

With the door refusing to budge, climbing the staircase in the corner of the room seemed as good an idea as any. I tried to go upstairs quietly, thinking maybe someone was up there who'd mistake me for a burglar, but I soon realized it was pointless; those old steps creaked like a bastard no matter how careful you were. Besides, with me being so out of it I could barely even walk, I just didn't have the coordination for stealth.

I found myself in a second-story hallway, its walls decorated with posters of fighters. There didn't seem to be anything unusual about them…except for one. Seeing that poster gave me goosebumps: it was the same face I saw in the mirror! There I was, dressed in full boxing regalia, on a poster! Things just kept getting weirder. According to the poster, my name was Ace…it had a nice ring to it. And even if I had no memories of being a boxer, I certainly felt as punch-drunk as any pugilist.

Staring at a poster of myself wasn't going to get me anywhere, so I continued down the hall. I was getting used to walking in a stupor, but therein lay the problem: the stupor itself. I felt like I was moving through a haze, as if I had been drugged. Given the needle mark on my arm, that probably wasn't far from the truth.

Opening the door at the end of the hallway unleashed a wave of cheap-smelling perfume on my nostrils; the room from which the nasal assault emanated looked to be a reception. I took a quick peek inside the secretary's desk. What can I say? I'm a curious guy. Besides, it's not like she was there to catch me in the act. I didn't find much, either, just a bill from a doctor named Brody. Someone at Joe's had ordered a bunch of crazy-sounding drugs from the doc, chemicals with names like "Diethanol Trimene." Why the hell would you need that stuff at a bar? Beat me. I decided to hold onto the bill. It had the address of a doctor, and I knew I'd need to see someone about my amnesia.

A door stood right next to the desk, but I quickly learned it was locked. Ol' Ace was stuck. I fumbled through the wallet I found in my pocket; Ol' Ace wasn't stuck for long. In addition to a 20-dollar bill and some screwy-looking card with holes punched in it, the wallet had a key to unlock the room. The wooden door slowly creaked open, giving me a look inside. The sight I saw was quite interesting, to say the least.

You know what can really ruin your day, especially when you've got a gun with three spent shells in the cylinder? Finding a body that's been shot three times. Oh, I was a lucky guy, all right.