Get out of here

Bemused, still mostly convinced you're in an **** induced nightmare, you decide to get out of the apartment and explore. First thing is to find something to wear. You can hardly walk outdoors in pajamas and your own clothes are not to be seen. Your eyes fall on the suit hung over a chair. It's a start but a shirt and some underwear would be good too. You pull open a drawer on the dresser and find a several white shirts. Not your preference, but that seems to be the choice.

Underwear proves more difficult. At first you think the dresser holds none, but then you realize that what you thought to be folded t-shirts are actually a kind of one piece shorts and shirt under garment. You find others with long sleeves and long legs. The day had looked like a warm one so you opt for a set of the shorter variety and struggle into it.

The shirt you try on fits your new body pretty well and you decide to see if the suit is as good a match. You take the coat off the back of the chair and freeze in surprise.

Hidden under the coat, hanging over the back of the chair is a holster with a revolver in it.

You don't like guns. You've never owned a gun. Hell, you've only ever held one twice in your life. You pick up the holster like it's covered in spiders and put it on the bed, laying the suit coat beside it. Okay Sam, you tell yourself. Get dressed, deal with that part of the nightmare later. You slide into the pants, which fit as well as the shirt. There are a pair of laced black shoes under the chair.

You return to the dresser to find socks and find them in a smaller drawer at the top. You also find another gun.

This one's not in a holster. It's an automatic pistol, relatively small. You pick it up gingerly, feeling slightly afraid of it, and suddenly your hands are moving, seemingly of their own volition. You eject the clip, clear the bullet in the chamber, work the action, reload the bullet into the clip and put the clip back into the pistol in less time that it takes to tell it. You stand holding the gun, looking at it, wondering yet again just who the hell you are.

You put the gun back in the drawer and take a pair of black socks, putting them on and tying the shoes. The shoes are worn but well looked after, and fit your feet as well as the other clothes have fit you. You notice a tie hanging on the chair and pick it up. Not something you normally wear, and you're always have trouble tying them. You hang it around your neck and are thinking of going without it when your hands slip into action and tie a perfect knot as though they've done it a thousand times. Okay Sam, so you'll wear a tie.

You reach for the suit coat and look at the revolver and holster. Without thinking you pick up the holster and put it on, pull out the revolver and open it to check the loads, then put it back in the holster again. Shaking your head, and more than a little uneasy, you put the jacket on.

You realize that there is stuff in the various pockets of your pants and jacket. Some small change, a set of keys, matches, a pack of filterless 'Fatima' cigarettes, a brand you've never heard of. And a wallet.

Opening it you find a few dollars in what look like antique bills and an assortment of business cards and membership cards in various associations, unions and clubs. Almost all of them have different names on them.

There's a driver's license, or a piece of paper that says it's a drivers license, no photo attached. It's in the name of a Gerry Conner, which matches none of the names on the other cards. It does, however, match the name on one other document.

A license for a private operative for the Continental Detective Agency.