He woke up left for dead. Where am I? he asked, scanning his environs. Urinals. Stalls. Sinks. Automatic paper towel dispensers. A bathroom. What’s wrong with me?

He looked in the mirror. A ghastly reflection. He looked like a prize fighter after twelve rounds. One eye swollen shut, his head pounded. He was covered in blood and smelled of … urine? His shirt had been ripped into two tattered pieces of cloth barely able to cling to his torso.

Someone must have hit me … repeatedly.

He found his wallet on the floor, tossed away. Empty.

God, they even took my ID. A moment of realization. Who am I?

Panic.

Flashes of memory.

A transvestite.
An angry black man.
Unconsciousness.
A fist.
A plea.
“Shut up!”
Unconscious.
Left for dead.

He felt like he had woken up the morning after a night of heavy drinking, his memory all scrambled. Only he had no friends to fill in the details. He couldn’t be certain any of these details were accurate. One thing was for certain: revenge.