You wake up in a New York hotel room, your vision cloudy. You have hazy memories of guests arriving, all grins and champagne glasses, coming in the night before to snort coke as you watched the Weather Channel – only you don’t remember inviting anyone over, and you can’t seem to figure out who they were.
Nevermind, you think: you like champagne. Sometimes a bit too much.
It’s only after rising with a headache like iron clamps strapped to your temples, squinting at the morning light, that you remember the syringe, and the struggle, and the fact that someone must have drugged you. But why you?
That’s when you see that: 1) you are still dressed; 2) your suitcase is gone; and 3) there is a small note taped to your bedside table, next to a free copy of International Salesman. The note says:
Shakespeare’s Hamlet is being performed in an elevator somewhere in Manhattan. You have ten hours to find it.
This is terrible news.