You hurt. Stars swim behind your eyes, there's a throbbing inside your skull that beats in time to the jackhammer some schmuck installed in your chest, and you feel like you spent the last three nights on a non-stop bender featuring Señor Cuervo.
In short, you feel like shit. It's pitch black too, which might have something to do with the fact that you have absolutely no clue where you are. Jeez, what a night!
Most nights don't end with your arms tied behind your back and, now that you're really thinking about it, what feels like a burlap sack crammed down over your noggin, though.
Except the really good ones, know what I mean?
You hear the squealing of tires, the world goes thump, a blast of cold air hits your skin, and suddenly you find yourself ass over teakettle dumped out on the pavement. Some joker revs an engine and you hear something big and probably diesely peel out like a teenager who just got his grubby mitts on Daddy's Camaro, and just like that you're alone.
It takes a few minutes but you manage to weasel your way out of the duct tape holding your wrists together and tear off the sack covering your head. A quick look around tells you that it's the middle of the night and you're sitting on your ass in the middle of the road on the edge of some run-down podunk town in the mountains. Which mountains, though, you have no idea. A rotten looking sign hangs at a crazy angle off to the side of the road, loudly welcoming you to the picturesque town of Holmfield, population 2800, in peeling white paint ; the handy bit that'd tell you exactly where said picturesque burg is located is conveniently missing though.
The wind whistles loudly through the woods lining the side of the roads, and you get the creepy feeling you're being watched.
Some night this turned out to be…