The lesbians are on the bed doing what lesbians do with their clothes off.

"You like, Amerykanin?" asks one of the lesbians.

"Tak." I'm sitting a few feet away drinking a beer. My participation is not required or wanted; this is only meant to be an exhibition. I look outside the window and see that it's light out already. I close my eyes to remember what darkness is like and I feel sleep wanting to take over. I can't remember the last time I slept. I think it was yesterday, but yesterday feels like my fifth birthday—only I know this can't be true because I'm not wearing my Superman Underoos.

With my eyes closed, I can hear the lesbians, their kisses connecting and disconnecting, their sighs rising and falling, and their fingers clicking in a liquid vacuum. And while I appreciate these sounds, I can't help but wonder how it is I got here in this strange little apartment in Krakow with these two Polish women. I don't even know if I have money for a taxi back to the hotel—Do I still have a hotel room?—let alone the train home tonight.

Blaming myself for my current situation sounds easy enough I guess, but I'm not known for taking the easy way. And besides, in this case, the journey towards personal responsibility seems more important than the destination. Instead, I think of the cold bastards who took me out tonight, who bought most of the drinks that've replaced my precious blood with sweet, sweet alcohol, who disappeared one by one as the evening progressed in this dark city, and I decide to blame them.

But that's not fair, is it? If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be here with the lesbians, who are now using toys. No, I must absolve these fine gentlemen and instead focus my frustration on the organization they work for: the Secret Service.

Why did they take time out from protecting the second most powerful man in the world to completely screw up my life?

Were they under orders to doom me?


...

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