I wake up with the worst hangover ever. My brain pulsates like a heart and a skull that's three sizes too small.

What did I drink last night? I try to recall the night before, but nothing comes to mind.

This kind of pain I associate with raucous celebrations like, I can't remember. My dry tongue scrapes the top of my mouth

like sandpaper on rocks, and I turn in my bed, only to flop onto cold concrete. Holy shit! Look, everyone!

A new fish! I don't recognize the voice and immediately try to scramble to my feet but only

tangle up my legs. Before I can make up from down, I'm grabbed roughly by my shoulders

and hoisted to my feet. My back slams painfully against something hard and it jars my eyes

open. It takes a moment to focus, but my vision slowly reorients.

The face that greets me is something straight out of Oz, and I don't mean Dorothy and the

munchkins. The man before me is tall and muscular. His head is clean-shaven, and two teardrops

are inked below his eyes. Tucking out just beneath the sleeves of his orange

jumpsuit are a matching pair of tattooed swastikas on each wrist. He grins eagerly at me,

leans close to my neck, and breathes in deeply. Ooh, he's still got that new fish smell.

Me and you are going to have some fun.

Every horror story about prison runs through my mind.

I squirm and try to break his grip, making the brute laugh harder.

He thrusts his forehead forward and my head snaps back.

My hangover explodes in my head and I taste blood. As my vision clears,

I see the skinhead licking my blood from his lips. Mmm, taste better than he smells.

Hastened you to the morrow? Let yonder be until golden embraces evaporate us all.

I think the gibberish is from the blow to my head, but the skin head freezes. Glancing over his shoulder, I see two men approaching us, each also sporting orange jumpsuits.

Glancing down, I realize that I'm wearing the same outfit.

...