Fisahypnozerasol plus some high-grade opiates to trigger it will leave you with a sense memory of fairly humungous physical pleasure and no idea what happened to cause it. That is fine if you wake up next to your acknowledged sexual partner and less good if you walk into the breakfast room of a log cabin full of weirdo strangers wearing nothing but a borrowed XXXL tour shirt for a Euroskiffle PMV band called the Dover Bends.

If you do not know what PMV is do not Google it.

“Owwwww loud loud loud Elena fercrissakes not cool—”

“Oh hey Rita you here too?”

“Yes Banjo,” Doc says, “me and Lulu and even Bad Man Adams from the band.”

(That’s Charlie and Lucille she’s pointing at and of course I have a hole in my neck that has recently been superglued but even without that the idea that one might have done sex with Lucille is a troubling sort of a thing. Lucille looks like a hair puller.) “Aaacccch ne ne ne ne—where are we? Where is my husband—”

Charlie says: “Well this is our house and Oscar well he bailed after you guys got into it a little that guy cannot take his hooch I am afraid he was way grouchy and you told him to—well you were clear about who wears the pants in your house sexually speaking—but wow lady—you! You are THE dirtiest hunter in the ocean sweetheart that I gotta give you I have not been speared and flensed like that in—”

“…o SHIT du meine Gute shit shit shit…”

Elena Riccardi is having a really bad morning right now and Charlie is just grinning at her and bringing her coffee and that is making it worse because she cannot remember anything at all except being really really you know—

—satisfied—

—by person or persons unknown but if you’re lucky maybe you can piece it together and find them again and pin them to a wall and—and she does not feel good about that but at the same time she really does and—

And that is why you go to FischFisch in the first place.

—