When Mickey Meets Margarita

Against my will,

I'm here.

Not sure how, but I'm definitely here.

The stench from hours of intermingled cigar and cigarette smoke, humidity and sweat is one indication.

The other are these handcuffs that now accompany my evening attire;

most of which was stripped from me. Jewelry, shoes, cell, clutch bag... but my dignity's still intact...for now.

My head is pounding about as loud and as fast as my heartbeat, but right now I'm feeling too lousy to be scared. It's hurting to even recall it, but margaritas are never that bitter. That was the start from what my muddled thoughts could gather. Many of the main details are sketchy though, so how can I figure out how to get outta here when I can barely understand how I ended up in a Mexican jail from one of the hottest nightclubs in the city?? Here I am, in another country, still having to be fearful of being incarcerated, and more so for my life!

Why won't they let me make my call? Where did they take me anyway? I can't see anything with a name anywhere. My surroundings appear "jail-like" in the traditionally esoteric sense, but I have yet to see anyone official looking. It feels as if I've been here for days with each minute seeming like an hour. My bladder won't hold much longer either. It's still too difficult for me to verbalize any thought since I haven't gained control of my speech yet, nor do I have enough moisture to generate any saliva. I'm in the pot belly stove of Hell's Kitchen expecting to be served up a pitcher of ice cold agua, but neither my captors nor the pitcher of water are coming. So I keep waiting...