So, as I'm battling the world of being a single parent of 4 kids while my hubby's out of town for God only knows how long, I just had to write a bit of the funny or I'll lose whatever's left of my sanity. Hopefully this will make others laugh as well or maybe I've already lost touch with reality.

Chapter One

There's just something about waking up not knowing where you are that'll set your head to spinning right off the bat, or maybe it was already doing that to begin with, but either way it's never a good feeling. Eyes cracked opened. Eyes pressed firmly shut. Yep, definitely spinning without the need of not knowing where I am.

Hangover?

It's a possibility. My stomach certainly feels like it went about ten rounds with two bottles of Jack. From the pounding headache and blurred vision, I'd say good ol' Jack kicked my ass, but the slight metallic taste in my mouth had nothing to do with alcohol. Maybe Jack had friends of the beefy, slam their fist in your face variety? That would definitely explain the face mashed up in a blender feeling.

A quick probe of my forehead. Bandaged. Nothing important leaking out, always a good thing. Damn, Jack's friends must've had a baseball bat or else my head is a lot fatter than I remembered.

So, quick assessment. Right eye – swollen shut, phew . . . that means it's not gonna fall out on me. Left eye – yeah, not feeling so hot at the moment. Cheekbones – still seem to be in the right place. Will have to double check when I can see straight again. Not sure lips should ever be this swollen – damn, I'm like a walking, not so much talking, plastic surgery experiment gone horribly wrong.

Sense of smell still working just fine – Shit, did I really puke all over myself? Umm . . . the answer to that would be a resounding yes.

Okay, since my left eye is now open, and hasn't splattered to the floor yet, I might as well risk a look around at my surroundings. Definitely not cheery, of course lights might make all the difference in the world. Good to know that whomever owns this place has a stockpile of candles however. Huh, thick blankets covering all the windows. Always great to have tons of candles burning with so many flammable objects readily at hand.

A strange tap-tap-tapping noise filtered through the mushy fog that I called my brain, and lifting my head off the pillow it was resting on, I searched for the source of the sound. Across the room, a young man in his mid-twenties, dressed in pajamas and a thick bathrobe and slippers, sat at what looked like a folding card table typing away on an old fashioned typewriter. He stopped the moment he realized I was staring at him, and glanced up at me and a lazy grin spread across his features.

"Ah, you're finally awake." He smiled politely, then crinkled his nose as he gestured toward a door off to the left of himself. "The bathroom's that way . . . I didn't wanna wake you, but now that you're apparently up – well, you're kinda stinking up the place, and scented candles only help so much."

"Where am I?" I asked hoarsely, wincing at the searing pain in my throat. Okay, so maybe speaking at the moment was not such brilliant plan as I seemed to have swallowed glass somewhere between enjoying Jack's company and having my head pulverized in the name of baseball practice.

"Well, you made it very clear – no hospitals, and then you face planted it right into the pavement, so I couldn't very well leave you there to bleed to death." He waved his hands in front of himself in an excited manner as he explained. "So I brought you home with me . . . God, I hope you're not some sort of deranged serial killer . . . then again if you were, I might be able to pick your brain a little bit . . . details, you know, it's all in the details. People will spot a flaw a million miles away, and a publisher . . . ." his voice trailed off as he scratched his head, seemingly searching for the right words to describe what he wanted to say. "I'd compare them to Darth Vader – all-powerful ya know, but they're really more like the Emperor. Cause sure they play all nice as they flip you all inside out, drained your soul, and then turn you to the darkside of the force." His smile faltered, realizing I was staring slack-jawed at him. "Not a big Star Wars fan I take it?"

"Not so much," I managed in a breathy whisper.

"That's okay, the analogy still holds firm," he responded unconcernedly with another wave of his hand. "I'm Eric by the way," he paused, biting pensively at his lower lip, and a slight frown creased his brow. "How'd that sound to you? I thought I liked it but now I'm not so sure. I mean, it rolled off my tongue nicely, but I don't know if it has that certain feeling I'm looking for."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" I probably would've scrunched my eyes in confusion if they weren't already squinted closed due to bat and fist pulverization. God, if this guy was my drinking buddy last night, it's no wonder I got my ass kicked. He's all kinds of buckets of crazy.

"Eric – er, I'm tryin' it out . . . maybe I just need time to get used to it." His lazy grin returned as he scratched at his short, scruffy hair. "I mean, does it scream horror writer to you, say like Stephen King does . . . maybe it's all in the last name? What do you think?"

At the moment, I was thinking to myself that the name Eric now conjured up the images of a stark raving lunatic in my mind, but seeing that I had yet to use his shower, which I really needed, I thought it better to keep that to myself. "Think I could really use that shower, if you don't mind."

"Sure," he gestured toward the door once more, "sorry about that. Here I'm all ramblin' on while you smell like you've been roaming around in a sewer all night long."

I'm not sure why but when he mentioned the sewer, a faint image of a dark, dank place with pipes attached to cement walls, and a dirty river of raw sewage beneath my feet, flashed through my mind, but then it scattered amidst my furiously pounding headache. "You wouldn't happen to have any Tylenol by any chance, would you?" I asked doubtfully. Oh, I'm fairly sure he probably had plenty of other kinds of drugs, ones doctors prescribed for whatever mental illness he was suffering from, but he didn't seem the type to carry the essentials any normal person would have in their home.

"Sure, it's in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom . . . ah . . . ." He hesitated as he eyed me rather suspiciously. "Afraid I never got your name last night in all the excitement."

Excitement? I'm glad to hear he found me getting my ass kicked exciting, I really wouldn't want to disappoint crazy guy, maybe he could add it to one of his stories. "It's – it's . . . ." I narrowed my already squinting eyes even more as I searched the sludgy chasm of my mind, and came up with big, fat nothingness. "I'm . . . ." I scratched the back of my head, wincing as my fingertips brushed along the ridge of a thick welt beneath the bandage.

"You don't remember?" he asked rather excitedly, probably making plans to add this to whatever horror story he was working on at present.

"I remember," I shot back angrily, rubbing my temples as the image of an old fashioned Colt revolver flitted across my mind.

"Well, if it helps, I'm usually good at picking out names that suit people, an' you look like a Larry to me . . . or maybe a George."

"It's not either of those," I uttered, rolling the sound of the names around on my tongue, and determining they didn't suit me at all.

"Well, if you don't know, how can you be sure?" And there it was again, that annoyingly lazy grin of his. It was the kind of smile that made you want to beat the crap out of him just on principle alone. And I'm pretty damn sure a Larry or George wouldn't feel the same way as me on the matter, so I knew I could cross those names off the list.

It was at this point that inspiration struck me in the form of a sharp pain that began in the middle of my back and shot its way up my spine to my brain. I had proof of who I was in my back pocket, and I would prove to him that I wasn't a Larry. Fishing through both my pockets and coming up empty, I then searched my jacket pockets as well, only to find the same results. "My wallet's missing."

"Don't look at me." His grayish-blue eyes widened considerably, shaking his head in feigned innocence. "I looked around for it last night after I str – " His voice abruptly trailed off as he lowered his head to break eye contact with me. "I checked your pockets and it wasn't there when I found you."

Eric, or whatever his real name was, was definitely lying about something – Hell, he was probably lying about everything, but since he was the only one who might have a real idea of who I was, I couldn't afford to have him kick me out of his house at the moment. "Look, if you don't like Larry, I'll call you something else, I just figured you wouldn't want to be called something unoriginal like John Doe."

The name John was completely unoriginal, yet it did strike a familiar cord, but the memory it invoked seemed more like something out of a horrible nightmare instead of reality. "It's not John," I muttered, feeling as if I'd just somehow denied an important part of my life. Yet, along with that feeling came a deep-rooted anger that I couldn't find a reason for, so I shoved it to the deepest niches of my mind.

"Well, Larry it is then, unless you want me to make you up a really cool Star Wars name . . . mine's Krier Frroc, Jedi Master."

"I'm gonna go take a shower." Before my head explodes or I kill you, I mentally added to myself as I stood on shaky legs and headed toward the bathroom.