What the h-e-double-hockeysticks?

That’s what I said-out loud, to no one-when I woke up on my front lawn wearing a three-piece suit I don’t own, holding a goldfish in a champagne flute, while my neighbor’s twelve-foot inflatable Santa lay face-down beside me like we’d both survived the same bad choices. The sun wasn’t even up yet. The street was quiet. And there I stood, barefoot, smelling like someone had sprayed me down with last night’s regrets.

The goldfish blinked at me. Or maybe it was just doing whatever goldfish do with their eyes. Hard to tell.

My head throbbed in that slow, purposeful way that told me there had definitely been whiskey involved-possibly the kind sold in plastic bottles. My tie was tied so neatly it couldn’t have been me who tied it. I can barely tie my shoes correctly on a good day.

I looked at the Santa sprawled across my yard. His fan was still running, whining like it, too, had a hangover. One of his enormous vinyl boots rested on my sprinkler head. His mittened hand pointed accusingly at my porch as if to say, "You did this."

A faint hum came from my jacket pocket.

I reached in and pulled out a phone that wasn’t mine-sleek, expensive, unlocked. The wallpaper was a close-up of a tuxedo cat wearing a bow tie, looking like it was about to fire someone.

A notification blinked:

"Thanks for last night. Same time next year. -M."

I had no idea who M was. I had no idea what "last night" referred to. And I absolutely had no idea why the goldfish was now flicking its tail like it wanted out.

I staggered toward the house, the grass cold under my feet. The front door was ajar. Not wide open-just barely cracked, like someone had tried to close it silently and didn’t quite succeed.

Inside, everything looked… normal. Too normal. My keys were on the counter. My shoes were by the mat. My couch cushions were exactly how I left them-sunken, lumpy, judgmental.

But there, sitting neatly on the coffee table, was an envelope with my name on it. Real pen, real ink, real cursive-nobody writes like that anymore unless they’re trying to be dramatic.

I put the goldfish down on the counter-it seemed surprisingly patient-and opened the envelope.

Inside was a single line:

"You handled yourself better than expected."

That was it. No signature. No explanation. No instructions.

I set the letter down slowly.

The goldfish burped. I swear it did. A tiny bubble floated to the surface of the champagne flute.

Then the power went out.

All at once-whump-silence. Darkness. The hum of Santa’s fan outside died mid-whine.

I stood completely still.

Somewhere in the house, something shifted.

Not loud. Not threatening. Just… a sound. A soft one. Like a door clicking shut in a room I didn’t remember leaving open.

My throat went dry.

I picked up the champagne flute again, because apparently the goldfish was the only reliable ally I had left.

Something else moved-closer this time.

And then a voice, low and calm, came from the hallway behind me.

"Ready for part two?"

I didn’t turn around.

Couldn’t.

Didn’t dare.

The goldfish swished its tail like it was in on the joke.

Outside, the inflatable Santa collapsed fully onto the lawn with a long sigh, as if to say: Buddy, whatever you did… good luck.

And that was the exact moment I realized something simple, awful, and undeniable:

I had no memory of last night-

but last night definitely wasn’t done with me.