FICTION – FOWC & RDP

The Morning After

If you ever wake up and immediately regret being alive, congratulations—you’re probably me.

My skull was hosting a drum circle led by caffeine-deprived raccoons. My mouth felt like an unnamed beauty had sandpapered it with a vendetta with every man who dissed her ever, and my limbs responded to commands in defiance like they were on strike. Everything hurt, especially my dignity.

I groaned, rolled over, and promptly fell off the bed onto my work boots. Those lace hooks really hurt. Classic.

As I clawed my way upright, fragments of last night teased my consciousness—neon lights, slurred toasts, someone yelled “SEND IT!” (possibly me), and the faint memory of interpretive dancing to an EDM remix of Ave Maria.

Then it hit me.
Something was missing.

I patted myself down. Phone? Somehow still miraculously clinging to life under the pillow. Keys? Jangling mockingly on the nightstand. Wallet?

No wallet.

I picked up my jeans from the corner and checked the pockets. I wondered how they got there. Then realized that nothing was going to be normal today.

Cue the internal scream.

I scrambled to check under the bed, between couch cushions, inside the fridge (don’t ask), and even in the washing machine. No dice.

Panic was slowly rising like a bad dubstep drop when the door creaked open.

Harper, the Roommate of Judgement

“Lose something, hero?”

There she stood: Harper. The kind of roommate who alphabetized the spice rack and judged you silently when you microwaved leftover fish. She was holding a mug that said, ‘I Tolerate You’, which honestly felt generous.

I blinked at her, attempting to appear casual while definitely radiating the aura of a feral raccoon.

“My wallet,” I croaked. “I think it… wandered off.”

Harper leaned against the doorframe like she was starring in a sarcastic soap opera. “Well, unless your wallet’s name is Travis and it yells about late-stage capitalism when drunk, you left with someone else last night.”

“Travis?” I asked, brain lagging.

She sipped her coffee with the grace of a smug swan. “Tall, loud, wore a tank top with a motivational quote that was both inspirational and wildly inaccurate. You two were in a budding bromance bonding over tequila shots and something about ‘seizing the narrative’.”

“…I’m scared of me,” I whispered.

“You should be.”

I collapsed onto the couch. “Tell me we didn’t go clubbing.”

“We did. Or at least, you did. You left this apartment yelling ‘THE NIGHT IS YOUNG, AND SO AM I!’ “Drink, dance, and Conquer!” even though both those statements were lies.”

I groaned. “Please tell me we ended at the diner.”

“We always end at the diner,” she said. “You made out with a corn dog and a bottle of mustard.”

“…Romance is dead.”

She tossed me a bottle of water and a packet of aspirin with the precision of someone who had done this before. Too many times. “Find your wallet. I’m not covering your avocado toast debt again.”

With the grace of a hungover possum, I stood up. “Time to retrace my shame.”

“Godspeed, wallet warrior,” Harper called after me, already halfway back to bed. “And try not to lose your soul this time.”

The Pub (Where It All Went Wrong)

The sun assaulted my retinas like it had a personal vendetta. I stumbled onto the sidewalk, blinking like a mole emerging from its hole, while Harper followed behind me, arms crossed, coffee in hand, deeply regretting her life choices.

“Are we walking into your shame voluntarily now?” she asked.

“Retracing my steps. Like a detective. A very dehydrated detective with a bad haircut and no clue.”

She snorted. “So… yourself.”

We reached The Pickled Elbow, the pub where the descent into chaos had apparently begun. It looked innocent enough in daylight—wood-paneled charm, cheerful chalkboard sign out front. Like the kind of place that would lull you into bad decisions with discounted craft beer and 2000s pop playlists.

Inside, the bartender looked up as we entered. She wore the tight smile of someone who’d seen it all and did not want to see any of it again.

“Oh,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me. “It’s you.”

“Hi,” I said, sheepishly. “I think I lost my wallet here last night.”

“You mean after you got on the bar and tried to convince the crowd you invented the espresso martini?”

Harper burst out laughed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee. “You what?”

The bartender—Gina—shrugged. “He was passionate. Loud. Slightly wrong.”

I flushed. “Right. So, no wallet?”

Gina shook her head. “Nope. But you left with a guy named Travis. Tank top. Looked like he got rejected from a CrossFit cult.”

Harper nodded like it all made sense. “The prophet of bad life choices.”

“Also,” Gina added, pulling a wrinkled napkin from behind the bar, “you made me promise to give you this.”

I unfolded it. It said, in my own handwriting:
“IF I GET LOST, CHECK THE MEAT PALACE. THE TRUTH IS THERE.”

Harper peered over my shoulder. “What the hell is the Meat Palace?”

I stared at the napkin. “I think… it might be the club.”

She sighed. “Of course it is.”

As we turned to go, I found myself reflecting on just how often I ended up here—metaphorically and literally. A bar, a mistake, a blackout, and a joke that stopped being funny. I wasn’t just losing wallets. I was losing my grip on being someone I recognized in the morning. There was a certain bewilderment in that realization that dug deeper than I’d like to admit.

The Club (A.K.A. The Meat Palace)

We stood outside a neon-soaked warehouse with a line of people already queuing like they were about to enter battle. The bass thumped like a distant migraine.

Harper looked up at the glowing sign:
CLUB INFERNO.
Below it, in smaller font: Home of the $5 Mystery Shot.

“This place smells like Axe body spray and desperation,” Harper muttered.

“I vaguely remember trying to backflip here,” I said. “I cannot do a backflip.”

“You also can’t walk straight, so that checks out.”

The bouncer stopped me. “ID?”

Harper raised an eyebrow. “This is the part where you realize the comedy of your situation.”

I gave the bouncer my saddest eyes. “I lost my wallet. Can I just ask the bartender something real quick?”

He folded his arms. “No ID, no entry.”

“I have a photo of him doing the worm in here last night,” Harper offered, holding up her phone. “In a banana costume.”

The bouncer looked. Blinked. Grunted. “Five minutes.”

We had to scoot around a line of club kids in rhinestones and mesh to get through the door. Every one of them looked like the embodiment of my hangover’s worst nightmare.

We pushed through the crowd toward the bar. The lights flashed violently. My brain considered self-immolation.

At the bar, the bartender gave me a once-over. “Oh, God. You again.”

“I was hoping that was a collective fever dream,” I said.

“You kept shouting ‘THIS IS MY SONG!’ during a techno remix of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” she said. “And tried to tip me with lint.”

Harper let out a strangled noise. “Please. Tell me there’s security footage.”

“No wallet,” the bartender added. “But you were ranting about karaoke. Something about reclaiming your narrative through power ballads.”

I turned to Harper. “It’s worse than I thought.”

She looked at me a little more closely then. Not just annoyed or amused—concerned. And maybe I saw it too. This wasn’t just another night out. It was a pattern. I wasn’t looking for a wallet. I was looking for proof I hadn’t completely lost myself. That some idealistic version of me still existed beneath the chaos.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re going to a karaoke bar.”