Fugue Getta 'Bout It

Clad only in a trenchcoat, I found myself standing in Times Square. I have no recollection of events before my self-awareness, now slowly returning to my hazy mind. Not particularly aching or sore, my hands reflexively slide into the front pockets. A thick rectangle of paper. Prying the pocket to keep the contents private. Money. Alright. I might be able to work with this. Now the other pocket. Smooth cold metal. Small. A gun. Crap. This is going to be a problem. I just know it.
I now realize that I am shoeless. Can’t say that’s gonna help. How can I retrace my steps when I don’t remember taking any? I don’t recognize anyone. Who can help me? An officer? Better not. Until I remember the story around the gun, I better just keep walking. Just as long as I don’t stand out. Luckily, the bar for unusual behavior in New York is set way higher than in Ohio. Ohio? Where’d that come from? Wait, I remember. I am from Ohio. I’ll have to flip through a phonebook later. Great. Ok. What’s my next move?

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