[ WP ] You wake up in a bar with no memory how you got there . Last thing you remember is going into work . 2 days ago . You have no . Cellphone/wallet/memory of your identity , no one else remembers who you are also .

The drool. That's the first thing I noticed. A puddle of it, acting like cement between my face and the bar. It smelled of peanuts, and sour beer. A gurgle in my gut barged it's way through my drunken stupor. By the time it emerged, it sounded like a long, sorrowful moan. 
 
 I'm not a man who moans, I'm not a man who falls asleep in a bar. I do n't even necessarily like drinking; if you asked my wife that question, she would tell you that I loved to hit the bottle. But that was only an elaborate lie, which was obviously going to back fire. 
 
 I cursed at my surroundings while pushing my way upright on the bar seat. The dank corners of the place seemed threatening; where am I? I racked my brain and could n't find anything familiar. It's because I'm drunk, that's why my eyes are n't working. I wipe at my eyes, attempting to pick away the intoxication. The rubbing helps. I roll my neck, hearing familiar popping. I test my knuckles. 
 
 All my fingers are attached. Thumbs too. I pat my chest, finding that I'm wearing a jacket. Leather. This little victory sprouts a smile on my face, but it wilts as soon as I find that my wallet is missing. Jacket, jeans, all pockets void of the relief I search for. I look around, searching faces and hands. Maybe I'll recognize someone. Maybe I lent out my phone before passing out. 
 
 Silly notion. Everything from this bar is unfamiliar. The people, the sounds, the smells; even the beer taps are unknown to me. Where the fuck am I? I try to find a bartender. 
 
 That venture has the wind stripped from it once I realize that I... I do n't remember anything. I do n't... I ca n't... figure out my name. What's going on? Did I drink that much? Did I lose my job? 
 
 I think back to work, the last time I was there. My fickle brain could recall one memory; walking out of the office with my car keys, phone, and a note in my hand. I remember staring down at it, with such excitement. No, that's not it. Dread, maybe. That's not it either. I racked my brain for a reason, logic, truth, to understand why I could n't nail the note's emotion. 
 
 I gave up, after a few painstaking moments of complete thought stoppage. The sludge that replaced my brain made everything purposeless, devoid of meaning. I felt a heavy presence settle on me, like giving up. Like truly giving up. I looked for the bartender, to ease my escape into oblivion. 
 
 I noticed a man, who was not there previously, standing next to me. He wore a suit, and he smelled like gasoline and cigarettes. 
 
 `` Hello, Cohen.'' His breath reeked, I flinched. `` Thanks for meeting me here.'' 
 
 And it all came back to him.
