It's probably about 6 when Mac's liver, excited to finally be finished processing the night's binge, wakes his brain up. He doesn't open his eyes, hoping this whole consciousness thing is just a phase, but his discomfort starts to get the best of him.
He's lying on a couch he's not immediately familiar with. The cushions have no give whatsoever, and their rough texture is almost definitely leaving red marks on his face. It seems he's slept on his arm. The decision to feel his cheek for bumps turns out to be a very bad idea.
Pins and needles shoot through Mac's arm. He'd heard somewhere that repeatedly squeezing his hand into a fist and releasing would get blood flowing back more quickly, but right now it's just making him flinch. He opens his eyes.
This is not his apartment. This is not a friend's apartment. This is not the house from last night.
There's some kind of Asian decor thing going on here. There's a copper-colored Buddha statuette on the mantel of the fireplace, some framed paintings of Asian women and swordsmen and dragons. Some kind of nonfunctioning zen bullshit relaxation fountain sits on the end table, with some assembly instructions out next to it. Mac catches the logo for a company called Asia-Tech.
This place feels Asian in the same way Chinese restaurants feel Asian. It looks more like a kitschy museum exhibit than a living room. Mac imagines the owner probably has the Chinese word for "power" or "warrior" or "kung fu" tattooed on his arm, talks a lot about focusing chi.
Mac has no idea where the hell he is. Sure, maybe he doesn't remember everything from last night, but he at least remembers driving home — fuck... one of these days, that's going to catch up with him — and crashing in his own bed.
On one hand, Mac has a genuine mystery on his hands. On the other, he's a little dizzy, nauseous, and tired, and things might be a little less confusing after a short nap.
Here I'm going to break the narrative to give you, as the reader, a better idea of how you are expected to help shape the story.
Imagine that you, as the readers, are the angels and devils on Mac's shoulders. Some tell him he should check out his new surroundings. Others say 6 a.m. is clearly nap time. You can tell him what to do. You can argue for why he should do it.
You can try to tell Mac to do something the story so far does not seem to anticipate. Maybe, instead of just doing some general exploring, you want Mac to look for a phone so he can call his roommate and find out exactly what happened after he got home. Maybe your advice is that he find a newspaper so he can make sure he's still somewhere near his home, and he hasn't somehow traveled through time. Maybe you want him to get out of there before the owner finds him and calls the cops.
The world is your oyster!
Suppose somebody sent an e-mail saying, "Go back to sleep. Being hung over is certainly not conducive to solving mysteries!"
Assuming this is the e-mail on which I decide to base the next segment of the story, Mac will just close his eyes and drift back to sleep. Maybe the following page will revolve around some crazy dream. Maybe a pounding headache will prevent him from nodding off and he'll have to search for some aspirin. Maybe something interesting happens when he wakes up. All you can really tell from my decision to run with your suggestion is that Mac will try to go back to sleep.
In other words, what the world does to Mac is up to me. How Mac reacts is up to you.
So get to submitting already.
As long as Mac listens to you.
