There are two things I have come to learn about New Orleans: Everyone has lived there at some point in their lives. But not everyone makes it out alive. It started with a jazz club in New Orleans called The Dog-House. A beauty by the name of Telula sang with a voice like ice-cold whiskey on a hot summer's night. She was the reason I kept coming back to this club. Even though I didn't drink, I would go and buy one every night so that I could sit and listen to that honeyed voice. Of course, I had other reasons for being there in the first place. I was a jazz player, trying to land gigs just like everyone else. But unlike the others, The Dog-House offered me a deal that had people coming from all over to see me play. To top it off, I was finally going to meet Telula-things were going great. Maybe too great-I wake up in bed with a pounding headache, surrounded by a pool of blood. I run my hands over my body, searching for injuries. Should I be panicking more? Did I hurt someone? Had I drunk myself into a killer? Where had I been? Why can't I remember anything? And what the hell happened last night?

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