I woke with a start and felt the grittiness under my bare arms. "Where the fuck am I...?!" I muttered under my breath. "What the hell?"
I looked around and slowly my eyes focused. I took a deep breath and my nostrils were filled with the salty smell of the sea. I took in my surroundings and realized I was under a pier of sorts.
As I got up to my feet, my head spun and the back of my neck tensed up in pain. I sat back and rubbed it. It's as if there was a cloud hanging over me. For some reason, it's as if I'm seeing everything in muted colors.
"What the hell happened to me?" I said to no one. "What happened last night?"
I took a few moments and thought about my situation as the dizziness faded away. I stretched my arms and felt something thump against the left side of my chest, just under my shoulder.
I looked down and noticed a gun in a dark brown holster.
"Oh shit." I took the gun and studied it. "A Colt 1911 Automatic. Wait. How did I know that?"
I dropped the gun and scurried backwards in the sand... That's when it hit me. I don't know who I am or how I got here.
I stood up and cleaned myself off. I holstered my pistol and continued to clean myself. I felt a bulge in the left back pocket and pulled a wallet out.
"Two hundred bucks. Not a bad thing," I chuckled appreciatively.
I lost myself in a flood of questions until my reverie was interrupted by a man's voice in a curious accent.
"You alright there?"
I spun around and whipped out the pistol at the direction of the voice. "'Ere now! Watch where you point that shooter then, right?"
Standing a few yards away was a disheveled, unshaven fellow. Judging from his clothing, I'd say he was a transient. "What did you say?"
"I asked if you were alright. I swear you Yanks are a bit touched in the head, yeah?" He smiled and tapped his forehead.
"Yanks?" I stared at him and looked around slowly. "Where I am...?"
The bum narrowed his eyes. "You ARE a bit scattered, aintcha?" With a sweep of his left arm he bowed, "Welcome to Brighton, chum!"
"Brighton?"
"Yeah, Brighton."
"Where's Brighton?"
The bum guffawed as if he was told the funniest joke in the world. I already didn't like him. For some reason, I wanted to shoot him twice between the eyes.
"Why England of course!"
"England! What the fuck am I doing here?" I yelled in exasperation. "Just who the hell are you?!"
The bum backed off and raised his hands protectively. "'Ere... Relax, chum. If anything, I should be askin' you the same things and as well whatchoo doin' with that there stuff over yonder behind ya."
He pointed slightly behind me and I noticed a rather large black slouch hat and a long red scarf. On the blood red scarf lay a red girasol ring. It glowed faintly.
"Who am I...?"
***Management Note: Amazing what a picture under a pier does for you writers! Thanks for a very mysterious flash, Gabriel. P.S.--What is a girasol ring?***
