His hearing had been muted by the club music from the night before, and the sharp headache reminded Protag of an STD gifted after a forgotten night.

“Eggs,” he thought, “Fried Eggs cure everything.”

Of course, there was something off course about this hangover. It wasn’t a throbbing, or sharp pain in his head, no. It was a pain that encompassed his entire head. It was detached. There wasn’t pain in his head, but his head was, truly, in pain.

He looked around his room half expecting it to be an alleyway but reacting to the relatively comfortable squalid quarters as a tourist would react to the Taj Mahal. Never had his pile of dirty laundry relieved such anxiety. It probably never would again. Protag lay in bed for another half hour before deciding to take a look at the time and figure out whether he was going to do something about it. 1 pm. The Whiskey Gods were kind. He could still stand up, and so he did. Protag slushed about his room and slunk into the bathroom to assess the damages the night prior had inflicted on his corporeal form.

The dents were pretty obvious. A cut on his face, the red in his eyes, a splash of orange...something on his denim blue jeans, and an old watch on his wrist that spent its life on the end of another man's arm. These were all valid things to notice, but the one abnormality that stuck out like a sore thumb(besides his sore thumb), was a fat, pink, leathery, fairy, with a vuvuzela for a mouth, that bit into Protags scalp. About two feet tall and one foot wide.

“Shit shit shit,” thought Protag.

“Plants,” thought the fairy.

Protag inched out of the bathroom and picked up the dusty broom he had, laying in the corner. He crouched down low, thinking that a low center of gravity was probably the best move here.

1

2

3

Smack!

He made contact. The fatass lice sucker didn’t know what hit him. Fairies don’t know what brooms are, apparently. The hit sent the poor guy spinning around Protags head, twisting its’ snout a dozen times in the process. The spinning began to heat up the pain. Protags skull went from being a battleground of fallen soldiers to an active war zone. His squatted demeanor very likely helped him here, as it meant a shorter fall to his knees. Finally, he looked up to the fairy, still affixed to his cranium like a flamboyant crown. The fairy looked down at him with an innocent vengeance in his eyes and perched down on Protags shoulders. This was just peachy. The pain had a mellowing effect, unlike the feeling of waking up with a strange creature on you. It was time to outsource the problem.

Our protagonist walked out into the living room to seek counsel. His shady room looked like a different dimension compared to the neat and well-decorated living room. Protags roommate, Rohil, had just sat down to eat a bowl of fried rice he was a little too proud of having made. Rohil was a developer. Someone logical, or so he thought. That perfect blend of faux smart and high salary that Protag would’ve found even more annoying on a kinder man. Rohil was not a kind man. He was, however, nice enough to those that were nice to him, and Protag fell on the right side of that equation. Sitting on the kitchenette countertop and messing around with a Bluetooth speaker was Rohils’ girlfriend, Ritika. How that relationship survived, nobody knows. Ritika was Yoga if Yoga could be a person with a penchant for domestic violence.

“I’m telling you, dude, this thing doesn’t charge anymore,” said Ritika.

“Yeah, and I’m telling you that it would charge if you connect it to another plug point,” responded Rohil.

“Uh, Guys,” chimed in Protag.

“Can you talk to her? We fucked that plug point up with the stupid blender she made us use.”

“Made you use? All I said was that you should use it. You’re the cheap bastards that bought a heavily used blender anyways,” argued Ritika.

“Guys!” shouted Protag.

This got their attention. Their slightly annoyed and sarcastic eyes changed their pace when they turned back to look at their friends brand new fairy.

“Did you do something new with your hair?” said Rohil, sarcastically.

“Yes, actually, I decided to put a fucking fairy on it.” Said protag slowly and angrily.

Protag was sat down on the couch and inspected like a prize-winning horse is inspected by a prospective buyer.

“Don’t screw around with it, it really hurts when you do that,” said Protag, whimpering to himself more than anyone else in the room.

“Is it alive? Where’d you even find that thing?” asked Rohil.

“I’m not sure, don’t remember much. Just know I went out last night,” replied Protag.

“Yeah, no shit dumbass, we heard you throw up today morning,” said Ritika.

After a few minutes of debating the right course of action, the crew decided to turn to the mighty forces of Google.

“Pink fairy on head,” lead to some results. Those results lead to some more, and soon enough they found what they were looking for.

“Okay, so Wikipedia says that this thing is most probably a Memory Leech, but those things are supposed to be yellow. This guy’s mostly pink with a touch of yellow here and there,” said Rohil.

“This is pretty cool actually,” he continued, “people used to use these guys as a therapeutic device to treat depression and PTSD. They suck up the sad memories first, and when you take them back to their nest they fly right off your head and feed melancholy to their offspring.”

“So when you say they eat bad memories at first…” interrupted Protag.

“Oh, if they don’t get back to their nest, they just eat up all your memories. You’re brain dead for life. But hey, chill, all we have to do is find its’ nest. How far could you have gone? Most bars shut at 2am. That gives you a window of 5 hours here. Plus what’s the big deal in losing a few bad memories?” said Rohil, while staring into the Leechs’ vacant eyes.

Protag thought that Rohils logic was sound, but the sound of his logic was off. Fuck that chilled out relaxed vibe he was trying to put out. He’s only like this when he’s with Ritika anyways. It’s fake as all hell, and he wouldn’t be nearly this calm if he had a fucking fairy on his head.

Protag took a sharp and deep breath. Then he took another. And another. And another. He kept taking them until it was obvious that he was hyperventilating, and continued on even after that.

“Protag, chill. I’m gonna make you some tea. Everybody loves them some tea. It’s jasmine and shit,” said Ritika, as she walked back into the kitchen area.

Protag held his head in his hands and let the leech hang off to the side. He knew he had to get it together and figure this out before he forgot something important.

“Now, did you go out alone or with someone?” asked Rohil, “This is easier if you have actual friends.”

Protag gave Rohil a knowing look. They both knew that Protag went out alone. He usually did, unless his live-in couple joined him. Of course, Protag knew where to start, and so did Rohil.

By the time Protags Jasmine tea was ready, he had calmed down. It didn’t have to be all bad. He lit a cigarette to calm whatever restless nerves remained, carelessly ashing it wherever he saw fit.

“Dude, I bought the ashtray. Just use it. It’s not hard. Point and tap. Easy peasy,” said Rohil.

“O yeah man, sorry,” said Protag, adjusting his fairy so that it didn’t get burned.

“Well, where the fuck did you end up last night?” asked Ritika.

“I’m not too sure, but I also couldn’t find my phone this morning, so that’d be nice to get back,” said Protag.

“Oh perfect, if it was charged till you got there, we could just track your phone down, no problem. Our Lord and Savior, Google, tracks everything unless you tell Him not to,” said Rohil, as he opened up his laptop.

After getting Protag logged in and checking his location, it was evident that there was only one place he could’ve possibly gone. It should’ve been obvious to the trio, really. Petrol Metro.

Petrol Metro was a bar stationed at about a 12-minute walk away from them, nestled right between a city metro station and a petrol pump. The gang loved the place since the owner let them get their own booze from the outside world. They had a plan now. Go to Petrol Metro, get the thing off Protags head, have a pint or five, go back home.

As they stepped outside, still in their Sunday worst, the bright afternoon sun assaulted Protags corneas and visibly made the Leech squirm. After the initial daze, their city flooded itself around our lethargic heroes as they made their way onto the pavement. The city of Porusam was once the promised land. People flooded here from all over the country, escaping a harsher economic landscape, hoping to get a job. Of course by the time they got here they realized that there can only be so many jobs, and the ones that did get a job, couldn’t possibly get a job that any living breathing human could ever go through. The cityscape still looked beautiful from the right vantage point though, and the summer sun only made people fall in love with the city even more.

Protag had carried a banana out with him and his eyes darted around his neighborhood in search or something, and something ran up in search of him. A stray centaur pup galloped right up to him with a stupid smile on its face. Protag bent down, making sure that his fairy didn’t frighten the poor pupper, and held out the banana to his centaur friend. Within a fraction of a second, the fruit disappeared into the recesses of the creature's stomach.

“You know they only look human because humans genetically modified them to look human right? Fun fact: the only reason we made this chimera of a creature was to dissuade game hunting, but it only increased hunting in the larger picture,” said Rohil, as he shooed the puppy away.

“Fun fact: you’re a fucking nerd,” said Ritika as she hugged Rohils arm and forced him to keep up with her pace.

Protag looked back at the centaur and waved it goodbye as they carried on with their walk. He looked up and saw the massive office building creep in closer and felt a knot form in his stomach as he spotted his workplace in the distance. It was a call center, that mostly dealt with clients abroad. Protag had perfected the accents of at least six countries and used them all to sell software solutions to the retired and the lonely. It was a living, but his work timings also meant that his sleep cycle was ruined beyond belief. He remembered being glad that he worked nights a while back, but didn’t quite remember why. He just looked at the ground and kept moving. The only other option was to watch the couple being all cute in front of him.

As they approached Petrol Metro, they recognized the short, rotund man that stepped out to greet them with a cheesy grin.

“Matthew! How are you my dude,” said Rohil with both his arms wide open. Rohils networking mode had been activated. He shook the mans’ hand and leaned for a side-hug. Matthew matched Rohils energy and then some.

“This guy,” said Matthew pointing to Protag. “I’m surprised you can still stand up. You ready for round two yet?”

Protag was. Screw fried eggs, the best cure for a hangover was to stay a little drunk. Protag stayed quiet and they all walked in.

The pub was themed like a railway station. Pictures of old-timey trains adorned the wall and the bar itself was a flat top counter in the shape of a train., with bartenders dressed in old-school railway uniforms. The daytime lighting changed the ambiance of the establishment completely and literally threw some light on the damages done the night before. There were broken bottles, spilled drinks and the stench of wasted whiskey emanating from the floorboards.

“So this genius here lost his phone somewhere last night. You wouldn’t happen to have found something here, would you?” asked Rohil.

“No, no phones. But I did find a wallet and a dildo last night. The things people bring in here, man,” said Matthew.

The group sat down at the counter and had four beers slide down their way. Protag cupped his beer the way a house fire survivor would cup a tea after being rescued. They knew they it had to be around here somewhere but decided that beer was a better priority to. Matthew, the functioning alcoholic that he was, had gathered members of staff and asked them to look around the place for a phone. Four empty mugs later, it became obvious that nobody would find a phone there, and there was still the pressing matter of the Leech sucking on our friends’ head.

“It’s pretty clear that it’s not here. I say we search for the nest instead,” suggested Rohil.

Fair enough. They had read that the Leeches normally set their nest up in damp places so the gang tried the toilets. Nothing. No nest. Not even a clue to where they should search next.

“Oh by the way, did you make the game yesterday?” asked Matthew.

This was the lead that they needed. Apparently, a group of men, friends of the manager, had walked in yesterday for a drink before they went to their high stakes poker game. A poker game that Protag had jumped at the opportunity of playing.

“Yeah, I’m not sure how you convinced them that you’re some baller trust fund kid, but they bought they bought it and you bitched about the buy-in being too low,” said Matthew.

“How high was the fucking buy in then?” asked Ritika, as calmly as she could.

“Oh, about 50 grand,” said Matthew.

They all turned to face Protag. Gave it a moment of silence, and all tore into him at the same time. Matthew mocked him while trying to contain his laughter, Rohil started lecturing him about fiscal responsibility, and Ritika just swore at him till every swear word sounded too strange to really be a word.

Protag done did fucked up where it hurts the most. His wallet. No cheese or lettuce on his sandwich, there was no way he wasn’t broke.

“Can we please just deal with this later?! Let’s just get this pink thing of my fucking head first!” shouted Protag, interrupting the barrage of insults that came his way.

The cease-fire left everyone too tired to continue talking until Matthew suggested that Proag look in his wallet. The men had given him a card with the address of the game before taking off. Protag took out his wallet and fished around for anything of value. After throwing out a bunch of business cards accumulated over the course of a few months of binge drinking, he finally found the piece of paper. The torn up napkin had an address on it and they knew their next location.

“This place is in the industrial ring, we’ll have to take the metro,” said Rohil.