[ WP ] You wake up one morning hungover , but happily remember you have half a pizza waiting in the fridge . To your horror you discover that the pizza is missing . In its place a note : `` If you want to see your pizza again ... . '' followed by a list of demands ...

I woke up to the dulcet alarm of tiny dwarves banging the inside of my skull with sledgehammers. `` Fuuuuuck,'' I groaned, rolling over in bed and opening my eyes a crack. I immediately regretted everything, as the stupidly cheery sunlight rushed past my lids to stab me repeatedly in the eye. 
 
 `` Stupid fucking sun, with its stupid fucking light -- dumbass hydrogen fusion, like anyone gives a shit.'' Blind by enforced choice, I slowly stumbled out of my tiny room into the shared living space, tripping over Kepler knows what on the way. I thought I heard something crack on my way, but could n't be bothered to look and see what it was. A mug, maybe? Or possibly a shoe? Hell, it could have been a chunk of meteorite for all I could tell. The pounding in my head and the sandpaper coating my mouth left barely enough room in my mind for one thought -- the enormous water bottle I had in my bookbag, tossed somewhere in the common room. 
 
 `` I swear to every star in the Beehive Cluster, if I can just find some water, I'll never touch another bottle of cheap whiskey again,'' I lied through my teeth, tripping over one last unknown object into the common room. For the first time this morning, I was glad my eyes were closed: the room must be a mess, and I did n't want to think about all the cleaning we were going to have to do in the afternoon. 
 
 It took too damn long to find my water bottle -- lukewarm, but still more than half full. I gulped it down way too fast, not caring if some flowed over my mouth to soak into the thin tank top I wore to bed. At the moment, it was one of the most delicious things I'd ever tasted, beaten out for the top spot by -- 
 
 Pizza. 
 
 We'd ordered pizza last night. 
 
 There was probably still half a pie left in the fridge. 
 
 The cool pleasure of the water suddenly paled in comparison to what I knew pizza would do to my tastebuds. Mumbling incoherently, I blundered through last night's mysterious wreckage towards the fridge and yanked it open, almost thrown off balance in my haste. 
 
 But instead of my deliciously cheesy savior, there was only a thin white envelope sitting on the shelf where the pizza should have been. 
 
 Confusion fogged my brain as I picked it up, trying to process what it meant with what little was left of my thought process. Inside were two pieces of paper. The first, in curling sinister script that was hell on my aching eyes, read: 
 
 `` Dearest Meagan, 
 
 We have taken your pizza to a location unknown to you. If you wish to see it again, whole and uneaten, you will do every item on our list, here enclosed. 
 You have 24 hours. 
 
 Sincerely, 
 Anonymous'' 
 
 The edges of my vision tinged red. The letter and list crumpled in my hand as I shook from rage. Someone had taken my pizza. Someone. Had. Taken. My. Pizza. 
 
 No. Not just someone. Anonymous. Those *assholes*. 
 
 At first I scrambled wildly through the memories I could scrounge together, trying to figure out why some randos on the internet would steal my pizza. I had n't converted back to Catholicism or said something stupid about gay rights. I was pretty sure I had n't joined a hate group while drunk, and I had n't started a flame war about feminism on the internet for at least 3 weeks. 
 
 Then it came to me: last week, at a friend of a friend's party, there had been this guy who would n't shut up. He was some kind of hipster code monkey, which I had n't even known was a thing before he showed up, constantly going on about how writing code was `` the pinnacle of creative endeavors'' or some bullshit like that, to the point where he went to the lab early on Saturday mornings to practice his `` art'' in an empty lab. 
 
 He'd also, in some misguided attempt at impressing me into a hookup, gone on and on about how his knowledge of pearls or whatever the fuck made him invaluable to shady internet hacking groups. I'd dismissed it as a lie when he'd said it, but what if there had been some truth to it? 
 
 Rage propelled me into new levels of efficiency, and I stormed though the suite until I found my heaviest pair of combat boots, an old flannel shirt stolen two ex-boyfriends ago, and the only piece of kitchenware we owned -- a large, cast iron frying pan. Because it was Saturday morning, bitch, and *no one* steals my pizza. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The quad was very empty, even for 10.30 on a Saturday morning. Armed against the Texas sun with an enormous pair of sunglasses, I stormed down the worn pathways in the dried out grass, frying pan in my right hand, crumpled letter in my left, not caring who saw me. I did n't remember there being any restrictions in the student handbook against meaning murder by frying pan, but dammit, I was too angry to give two shits about Campus Security. If they could n't protect my pizza, they sure as hell could n't protect the bastard that stole it. 
 
 Recent renovations had shoved Physics, Astronomy, and Computer Science all into the same building. Which meant I had swipe access, and that stupid asshole had nowhere to hide. Automatic lights flicked on in my wake as I thundered up the stairs, as if trying in vain to warn my target. 
 
 With a mighty crash, I shoved open the door to the second floor lab, nearly breaking the whiteboard behind the hinge and scaring the shit out of this weedy looking dude in a navy blue beanie. I narrowed my eyes. That was him. I could n't mistake his smug fucking face anywhere. 
 
 `` WHERE'S MY PIZZA, YOU LITTLE SHIT?'' 
 
 `` Wh -- whuh?'' he stumbled over his tongue, still twitching from his initial startled jump. 
 
 `` My. Pizza. Where is it?'' I strode forward and pressed the edge of the frying pan against his neck like a blade. `` Do n't think I do n't know it's you. I got your note, asswipe.'' 
 
 `` Huh? Note? I-I'm sorry, I d-do n't --'' 
 
 `` MEAGAN, NO!'' someone yelled from behind me, and before I could react to something other than pizza-driven rage, two frantic sets of arms yanked me away from the little weasel, pulling me off center and into a mad tangle of human limbs. 
 
 `` Get -- off -- me,'' I panted, trying to claw my way out. 
 
 `` It was just a prank, Meagan!'' one of my assailants shrieked, clinging to my frying pan. `` Just a prank!'' 
 
 ``... Silla?'' I faltered, recognizing one of my suitemates. `` What the hell? Get off of me, this guy stole my -- *our* -- pizza.'' 
 
 `` No, he did n't,'' Silla said, still trying to wrestle the frying pan out of my angry fist. `` Read the second paper -- the list! It was just a prank, I swear!'' 
 
 My headache reared out of the haze of rage my mind was wrapped in, and with a growing pit of dread I did what I should have done to begin with, and read the second page. 
 
 `` 1. Gather every white card from the box expansion of your *Cards Against Humanity* set. 
 
 2. Take the laces out of every left shoe you own. 
 
 3. Check under the couch for loose change, bobby pins, and hair ties, and pray for your pizza's sake that you find enough. 
 
 4. Throw out all the beer cans and empty red cups in the common room. 
 
 5. Stand on one leg, hop up and down, and recite the precise value of the speed of light backwards. ( Do n't lie to us, we know you can do it. ) 
 
 6. Go beat up your suitemates for making you read with a hangover. < 3 < 3: )'' 
 
 `` We're *so* sorry about this,'' I heard my other suitemate, Reese, saying to the suspected weasel. `` I forget sometimes how crazy our friend can get from a hangover.'' 
 
 He did n't say anything in response, only whimpered in confusion and fear. 
 
 Shame and undirected anger mixed in an unpleasant slurry in my stomach, bubbling their way up my throat. `` Excuse me,'' I said in an uncomfortably throaty voice, and dashed to the bathroom to puke my guts up. 
 
 And that's how I gave a new meaning to the term `` raging hangover.''
