[ WP ] Your an author who wakes up to find himself in the place of the main character of the story , and the main character becomes the author of the story .

I fucking hate alarm clocks. 
 
 I've never owned one, let alone whatever this ancient relic is. I only need a schedule when I'm whizzing off to some Barnes and Noble store to sign some of my works for adoring ( and usually annoying ) fans. And even then, my agent is *on it* when it comes to wake-up calls. 
 
 So why in the fuck is this stupid alarm clock blaring in my ear?! How do I turn this off? Ugh. I might as well get up, even though no soul should have to wake at this ungodly hour. *What the fuck*. 
 
 I'm not even in my house. This is just strange. I know I fit the typical alcoholic author stereotype, but last night's bender must've been one for the books. Maybe someone spiked my drink. I knew hitting 20k followers on Facebook was going to be the end of me. Or maybe some sick new beginning. 
 
 No matter, I'll just grab my iPhone and get my agent to send a car. Time to collect my things. 
 
 I've got this sequel to my last book, and the publisher wants to know how it's going. I've reached a level of fame where the health of my works is more important than my own. Wonderful. Perhaps if I was n't such a bitter person, those who have to work with me might take more pity. No bother. I'm `` edgy.'' Fucking publishers. 
 
 If it had n't been for Abigail Horowitz and her harrowing tale of escaping the Nazi's medical experimentation, I would n't have this hangover. I would n't have this shitty deadline. I would n't have this stupid fucking alarm clock. Whose apartment was this anyway? 
 
 I see someone has been collecting World War II history. I must've bedded some raucous redhead with a taste for my writing and the History Channel. No matter now. I need to leave. Where is my fucking phone? 
 
 I know Abigail is just an extension of my feelings of helplessness. My therapist told me so. My *therapist*. Jesus, sometimes I wish I was illiterate. Sci-Fi writing was never my thing, but the thought of a woman with Nazi-gifted superpowers wreaking havoc on Hitler and his cronies developed into a deep cathartic writing exercise. At least I do n't have to worry about money, right? 
 
 Neither did this woman apparently. What is this? This is... It ca n't be. This is Abigail's suit, down to the last detail. What in the actual fuck. I really stepped in it this time. If this bitch went through this much effort... Where is my phone?! 
 
 I got ta piss. Where is the bathroom in this joint. These doorknobs are *old*. She really went all out. In fact, this whole place looks like it walked right out of my book. 
 
 This is it. *Aaaaaahhhh*. There goes $ 200 worth of Scotch. Fuck, that feels good. Wait, what?! What kind of sick fucking joke is this?! Where is my dick? 
 
 No. This ca n't be real. I have to be dreaming... I'm... A woman? 
 
 I must still be drunk. I need to lay down for a minute. I've really done it this time. 
 
 *knock knock knock* 
 
 Uh, what? If I'm quiet, maybe they'll go away. 
 
 *They're not going away, Jack. * 
 
 Who was that? What the fuck? 
 
 *Collect your thoughts, Jack. You'll need them. * 
 
 Look, I do n't know who you are but get out of my head! If you're gon na take up residence, at least give me some guidance here. 
 
 *Abigail crossed the room hurriedly to the display case with her newest uniform. * 
 
 I just want my phone, I want to call my agent, and I want to get back to LA. 
 
 `` *Wissen Sie, wie es ist, zu riechen dein Fleisch brennt? Ich weiß, Sie tun. *'' 
 
 No fucking way. This ca n't be real. 
 
 *Throwing on the suit, Abigail felt her bones strengthen. She was not going without a fight. * 
 
 Seriously, fuck this. 
 
 `` *Die Tür öffnen. *'' 
 
 Where am I?! 
 
 *You know where you are, Jack. *
