My name is Alex. That I remember clearly. The dogtag around my neck reminds me whenever I look down. The rest might as well be another mans life. Ha, I guess now it pretty much is.

I woke up in a trashy motel about 3 days ago. A 14 inch Bowie knife was lodged into the night stand. I opened the drawer, and instead of one of those Gideon Bibles I find a .357 magnum. This, my camo cargos and blood caked wifebeater all point too what must have been a pretty fun evening. If only I could remember any of it. D*mn, its starting to sound like a bad movie.

I looked around for anything to jog my memory. Other than the weaponry earlier, everything looked standard crappy motel. I walked into the bathroom, splashed water on my face and looked up. What I saw in the mirror spelled back 'Nam reject that couldn't move on. A Rambo impersonator with all the accessories. Scars littered my arms and and torso. My muscles were toned but felt fake, like I hadn't earned them. This kind of wake-up call wasn't what I wanted, so I turned off the light and slammed the door behind me.

My heart jumped when I saw a leather wallet lying on the floor, then sank again when there's no ID, no credit cards, nothing telling me who I am or what happened to me. The only thing inside was Andrew Jackson and a plain white business card. One side had an Arizona address indented in obsidian ink that almost spilled past the sides; The other purely stated " The Resistance" in the same oh so important fashion. The address escaped my mind no matter how hard I tried, but still dug at my gut like an old forgotten friend.

It all seemed ridiculous, but whatever other options I had must have been hiding pretty good. I decided to borrow this beautiful black Camaro in the parking lot. I had a feeling she needed a little more excitement than this town could give her. .357 in the glove box and Bowie knife in my boot, I punched the accelerator and peeled out onto the dirt road. I'll track down this "Resistance", whoever the h*ll they are, and get some answers.