Equal and Opposite

There were certain universal rudiments one could rely on. Immutable facts; clinical, dependable, and safe about which there was no argument, emotion, or ambiguity. For example, mass attracted mass, energy could neither be destroyed nor created, and about two months of your working year went to Washington where it was shoveled into a black hole and never seen again. Red meant stop, green meant go, and the sky, when clear, was blue, as it was today -- framed in a rusty reticle of steel -- the border being a thing new to Tyson. Unlike gravity, it wasn't a trusty standby, the box that was, and waking up in one was something he found unpleasant. He raised his head slightly to reconnoiter the situation and was met immediately with a host of new discomforts.
One was the manifest of said container besides himself: a squalid disarray of, well, trash that defied organization as much as it did sanitation. The other was the pounding in his head and similar state of it's contents. Mentally, he felt like a man standing in a "tossed" room from the movies: drawers ripped from dressers, cabinets hanging open. Lesson plans for tomorrow's section on thermodynamics mingled with memories of bygone birthdays and a shopping list from last week's trip to Costco. Convictions about the legalization of gambling in certain counties and a distaste for "Frazier" shared the fraternity of consummate miscategory as they floated listlessly together in shallow pools of oozing social etiquette. Geography wasn't where it should be and geometry was all bent out of shape. First aid was essentially broken, and he feared a few things gone completely. For example, was he ever afraid of dogs? Did turtles actually exist? A welt the size of a garlic clove throbbed on the back of his skull to explain the confusion. "Me, me; choose me," it said in waves of cruel intensity. "I know the answer, teach. Ask me to answer!"
Fighting the compelling yen to topple back to a prone position and wait out pain with as much time as needed, Tyson Gant, tax-paying citizen, responsible member of his community, and physics professor at Dustin Valley City College, Ballard County, Kentucky reached for the rim of the dumpster he'd been left in and hauled himself into the light. Imperceptibly, he also pushed the planet that much away from him and the sun he was seeking, but it wasn't something he cared about or noticed.
As he hoisted his frame rheumatically out of the battered disposal unit, slumping next to twin advisories stuck to the outside (which smelled only marginally better than the reverse) warning people against a) dumping and b) playing on or around, Tyson's mind was in fifth gear. Hobbled as logic and recollection were at the moment, he needed answers. He needed facts. He needed memory. And then as he took summary stock of his material possessions and gingerly checked his head for blood noting with the cameo appearance of relief a lack of the second and fullness of the first, it came coyly back to him in isolated vignettes.   
The girl. The drinks. The kiss. The kiss: warm, sultry lips pressed against his, a breathy exhalation of... soju? ...with... mango; that's right. One of those half-license bars with the menu of rice-wine replacements for cocktails traditionally mixed with vodka. What was the name of it? "Mike's", "Mac's", "Mickey's"? Crap. "Morrey's", maybe. Did it even start with "M"? He knew he'd never been there before, and would declare with unassailable certainty that he'd never be back if he could only remember enough to avoid it and if the memories weren't enigmatically good -- so far. He could almost feel her body pressed against his as he though of it now, the energy of desire and hot pulse of dark skin. His aching mind danced in momentary salvation with waves of her silky hair and flashes of supple brown eyes, at once furtive and unshrinking, electric with sinful intentions. A visceral groundswell from primal chambers relegated by chronic disuse to storage of scientific charts and tombs of useless trivia consumed him before... yes. Oh, yes; and there it was: the precious restoration of nature's hateful balance. Cursed, inveterate harmony in the form of a brutal counterplay from the other direction; a depredation cold and hard as the kiss was soft an inviting. A gun butt, maybe, or a pipe. A flash of light, a spiral of stars, and this mid-day wake up next to a box of expired waffle cones.
But why nothing amiss save clarity today? Why leave his wallet, his watch, and his sneakers behind? Who was the girl and where had they been last night? Had she been attacked, or was she part of the set-up? -Did- turtles actually exists? ...And in the end the most befuddling question of all; specifically why oh why, since Ty'd woken up twenty minutes ago behind a Dairy Queen in an unknown part of town with what tasted like death in his mouth, fire behind his eyes, and the psychological composure of an eight-year-old, could he not stop thinking of uranium?