One benefit of sleeping on the bathroom floor, The Pouch realized that Sunday morning, was the close proximity to the toilet that the practice provided the newly awake. It was a short way to where he could open his mouth pouch and unleash a torrent of hot and steamy horror, the water logged and yet desiccated artifacts of the previous evening, its realities lost beyond the veil of time, and, judging by the fumes, tequila. There had to be tequila, lots of it. Captain MexiCanada was flying around so there was likely some whiskey, too. The Captain's two fisted super punch was too much reflected in his drinking practices. Such thoughts were rudely interrupted by a second torrent of regurgitation that tore it's way out of Our Hero, every pouch contracting with the effort.
Finally free from expulsive spasm, The Pouch leaned back against the cool tile of his bathroom wall and began his initial attempts at piecing together the events of the night before. The tightening of his many pouches, which accompanied his technicolor yawn, revealed to him, if only vaguely, that he had deposited a great many items in himself the night before. On the upside, it seemed as though the majority, perhaps the totality, of his investigation into what had transpired the night before could take place here, on his bathroom floor.
Bravely digging his left hand into his right palm pouch, The Pouch braced for the worst. There he saw, in the unkind glare of what morning light was able to sneak between his ready-to-be-replaced blinds, a token from the bar that indicated that he had been "backed up" on drinks and could receive a free drink upon redemption of this token. As it was clear to him that he would never be drinking again, The Pouch placed the small plastic circle safely in the drawer that held the matches he would light after a particularly foul defecation. There was, perhaps, a slight sound that might have indicated that the token had come into contact with a twin as it fell into the drawer, but the higher facilities of The Pouch completely ignored any such sense data. This first clue told The Pouch only that this morning could have been worse.
Turning his attention to his left bicep pouch, another spot in which he'd detected some level of occupancy, The Pouch took a deep breath before looking within. There he found five disposable plastic lighters. He had been, apparently that guy last night. He didn't smoke, which made this second clue feel somehow less informative, that it put him further from his investigative end, not closer.
The next investigated pouch was a short way away, his left triceps pouch, only on the other side of his arm. Inside was a rubber ball, nine aluminum jacks (one short of a modern set), and several pieces of chalk. The Pouch could recall yesterday's events up until a fairly late hour; it seemed most likely that some children had abandoned these items on the sidewalk somewhere between the bar and his apartment. He was a hero before all other things; there was no chance that he had taken the playthings from children directly. It was most likely that he had simply taken the items into protective custody until such a time as he could safely return them to their rightful owners. Clearly that was the thought process that had led to the presence of these things in his pouch. Surely the momentary flash he envisioned of laying on the sidewalk, insisting that what few pedestrians passed by at that late hour outline him in different colors of chalk to form a rainbow outline, not so much to denote his passing but more so the cessation of his hopes and dreams, was but an odd thought and not a memory at all.
His left pectoral pouch reported only something slight. Inside was a small cord which he drew out into the light. One end terminated in the familiar, dependable USB shape that would find a comfortable fit in any computer manufactured since... at least in the last decade or so, for sure. At the other end, the cord split seven ways, each sub-cord ending in a differently shaped connector. Our Hero wasn't much of a gadget guy or tech-savvy in any way, but still, there seemed to be something a bit off about these other connectors. He didn't recognize any of them as belonging to a device he'd ever owned or operated. None appeared to be the smaller USB ends. A few of them made his head spin when he looked too closely, as though their geometry was non-Euclidean. One of them seemed to be a different shape every time he looked away from it and then looked back. Well, somebody was probably going to miss this, he thought. What it said about last night was... unclear.
In his chest's central pouch, he found the saddest thing: a completely deflated, long and stringy balloon. Its many knots spoke of an expertly crafted design, some sort of beast had been rendered by the hands of a master. And now it was little more than a fossil, its living form recoverable only by computer modelling and great expertise. As feelings may or may not be facts, this provided no leads.
In his right side pouch he found a set of silverware. Upon closer inspection, these dining implements proved atypical. The fork was recognizable as a spork, the product of a fork's union with a spoon. The knife was unfamiliar, but further inspection revealed some of spoon in its DNA. Perhaps it was intended that the user would sip from the side that was not sharp. More perplexing was the spoon. Being the product of a spoon and another spoon, it contained two chambers of different sizes. The smaller was accessible via the tip, the larger from the side. It was hard to think about food at a time like this and also, no meaningful clues here.
His left hip pouch held what was actually the saddest thing: a chipped and cracked mug with "world's worst dad" written on it. This investigation was going nowhere.
The most central pouch of his right thigh held a disturbing mass of remains. Here were an assortment of bones, not appearing to be human, not appearing to have been prepared for presentation or storage. The light scoring visible in places on them might have come from the spork and spife he had previously excavated from himself. The Pouch spent some time attempting to order them, to see if perhaps the set reflected a complete appendage. His hazy brain tired of the exertion after what he felt was an eternity, though little more than fifteen minutes had passed. He reflected back to the many unclassified constituents of his throw-up and felt that it was entirely possible he'd stopped, in a moment of drunken munchies, for some street meat. It seemed extremely unlikely that he'd received some cooked portion of an animal from a UFO or the back of lab van that had to get rid of some experiments gone wrong. There was nothing conclusive here.
His right shin was full of jangles, those being a handful of change from no country he could identify. Also there was some lint and a tube resembling chapstick but festooned with indecipherable symbols. Only more questions were raised.
The last evidence bearing pouch, the smallest component of his left foot, held nothing more than a small charm on a chain. Drawing it forth, The Pouch saw that the charm was actually two charms, of the that type of locket where its separate but interlocking parts are held by two individuals. These were of different matching pairs but were held together, crudely, by a thin nail, having been pounded through one and then bent into a U shape before being pounded through the next and bent again to form a sort of staple. Nothing to see here.
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