When I finally opened my eyes, the glare of the sun made me wince. Pulling myself up so I could lean against the cool adobe wall behind me, I felt sharp pain shoot up my leg where the knife had cut.

“Where the hell am I,” I thought, “and who was driving that ugly-ass Impala?”

I stood up, and nearly cut myself on shattered glass next to me.

“Bastard made me drop my beer.”

I allowed myself a cruel smile, then walked down a dusty road that led to a small building, and a pickup truck idling outside. Maybe there’s a phone there.

As I approached the door, Clarissa walk out. She was lovely as always, over-dressed for wherever the hell we were, and pointing a revolver at my head.

“Well hello, Robert,” she said, holding the gun perfectly steady, “I was hoping I might have a chance to screw you over for leaving me in that rat hole bar in Seville.”