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Somewhere in the Popstyles, the threads of memory become completely unravelled and incomprehensible. A gathering of people toasting with glasses filled with a vivid, red liquid (probably the same stuff now adorning the carpet, although that has been darkened with God knows what else I had in my stomach). For some reason, an image of teeth, long pointy teeth, flares in my head. Deep and dark eyes, piercing red eyes, hypnotic music, a euphoric state of mind.
Yes, the lingering feeling and overall impression was that I'd had a very, very enjoyable night.
Once dressed I discovered I missed one item, or actually two: my shoes. After a little exploring I found them stashed under my bunk. Propped underneath my shoes was a small plastic bag.
The bag was tied shut with tape. I tore the tape off and inspected the contents of the bag. I found my wallet (at a glance nothing seemed missing, except my ‘emergency' condom), my key ring, plus a cream-colored envelope, hotel keys and sunglasses.
I put on my shoes and took the envelope. Inside I found a folded letter, written on expensive stationary paper:

[/i]Dear mister Cassel,

Possibly contrary to your expectations, you are not the victim of the "organ mob" as you might have feared. Nothing so crude has been done by us recently and, I hope, will not come to pass in the near future.
Anyway, what we did do to you last night, might, like the sneaky shot of H., involve some effects of withdrawal that will appear within in a twelve-hour period. To get the – only, I might add - antidote, and to find out what really happened last night, I am glad I can invite you to join us tonight at a private function. We will explain all to you there and introduce you to a world you have never imagined.
The address is stamped on the flipside of this letter. Your name is on the guest list if anyone bothers you.
We expect you at eight in the evening, sharp .If you're not with us by nine, we will assume you are not coming and you will be barred from further entry. Also, we will proceed with our plans and find a new... victim, in your stead.
Looking forward to meet you – again – tonight,

Kind regards,

Duke Spoleto

Post Scriptum – Your hotel bill has already been satisfied by one of us, so you're free to leave.[/i]

Well, if anything this was the weirdest letter I'd ever received. Especially the allusion to my own fear about missing kidneys struck an annoying chord.
I flipped to the backside and saw a stamp displaying the logo and address of the Hôtel Americain on the Leidseplein. It rang a bell and I recalled that was the hotel I'd dined last night.
A closer inspection of my wallet turned up a crumbled piece of paper, apparently a torn corner of recycled paper, on which was hastily scribbled in red letters: "Hélène Jufreaga, R109 Krsnplsky". The handwriting was clearly female and thus not my own.
Apart from the torn corner, nothing was out of the ordinary; my credit card, bank pass, driver's licence and cash money were still inside. I put the wallet in my back pocket, picked up the empty plastic bottle and left the room.