The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Thanks buddy, I appreciate it,” I said, slipping the host a crisp $50. He smiled and nodded, beating a hasty retreat.

This was perfect. Exactly the kind of booth I wanted—all the way at the back of the sparsely populated restaurant, high-backed in classic style. Very private. Laura and I would be totally alone but for our waiter.

Laura and I had been married three years now, but between our busy schedules the time had flown by. This weekend away was the first opportunity we’d had to take a vacation and relax since our honeymoon—which itself had been abbreviated due to Laura starting her grad program. Still fresh out of school, she had immediately landed a job at a lucrative tech firm and begun rapidly climbing the ladder. As for myself, I kept us afloat while she had gone back to study—not too hard a task, making what I did as a trader—and as far as I was aware we were each pretty content (I certainly was!), with the only major complaint being that we didn’t get to see each other as much as we’d like.

Of course, that was a highly valid complaint in my case, if I may say so myself, since Laura was an absolute stunner. We’d met in our early 20s, but the intervening six or seven years had done nothing to dull her beauty: she had gorgeous, auburn hair and a figure to die for. Over all those years in school, she had never neglected to hit the treadmill between classes, and her body was in fantastic shape.

And as for me, I’m no slouch myself. Just a hair over six feet, I have a stout frame and broad shoulders that I keep preserved through a careful workout regimen. Both Laura and I are go-getters, which is part of what attracted us to each other, so I doubt it will come as any surprise we’re both solid when it comes to self-discipline.

Hovering over my seat to keep an eye on the room, I finally spotted Laura picking her way through the tables. Her eyes lit up as she noticed me, and I have to say she looked absolutely radiant in a form-fitting blue dress that really showed off her figure. I had to imagine I was the envy of most of the restaurant. Yet I was perturbed to see her being followed by a creature that seemed all too familiar.

“Chris, look who I bumped into!” Laura exclaimed, stepping out of the way to fully reveal her companion. Not that any re-introductions were necessary: this guy was already branded on my brain.

Having arrived in Vegas around 6, Laura and I had checked into our hotel and taken a bit to unpack and put our feet up. By around 7:30, we realized we were starving, and, wanting to keep to a quiet evening for our first night here, had decided to hop down to the hotel restaurant for a quick bite. Having gotten confused with the layout of the place, however, we ended up in the bar instead. Taking a seat at a table, we’d discovered we’d wandered in right as the place was about to start hosting a performance.

The guy that was with Laura now had just stepped out onstage as the waiter brought us our drinks, promising to return momentarily with menus. Onstage, the guy was launching into some spiel about hypnotism, and I rolled my eyes as hard as I could. Jesus, there was Good Vegas and Bad Vegas, and something as chintzy as a fucking hypnotism show definitely screamed Bad Vegas. I asked Laura if she wouldn’t rather go and find the actual restaurant, but she stopped me, saying she was kind of curious to see where this was going, and maybe we’d end up seeing someone do something funny.

Now, as pathetic as I found the idea of watching some kid—this guy seriously looked like he was barely in his middle 20s—ply some stupid carny act, I was a sucker when it came to giving Laura what she wanted, so, with a snort I tried to mask as a laugh of friendly derision, I acquiesced. We might not be getting the fancy steaks I hoped for, but they could wait ’til tomorrow—if Laura wanted to check out this sideshow, I was willing to humor her.

The guy launched into his patter trying to put people under, and beforehand implored everyone to give it a try. I just shook my head—no way in hell was I submitting myself to that kind of indignity—but to my astonishment, I found Laura sticking her arms out like the kid had instructed. “Seriously?” I asked, looking over, but she just giggled.

“Come on, Chris. I know it’s a bunch of nonsense. I just want to see if anything about it works at all.” That was pure Laura. Though she was totally level-headed, she was nevertheless by far the one of us more open to new experiences. I rolled my eyes and turned back to the stage, watching the kid as he ran through his jibber-jabber: breathe deep, focus on your fingers, feel glue melting between the cracks of your fingers, drying, holding them tight, so tight, so tight they can’t move, stuck like glue, stuck like glue, stuck like glue, you can’t pull them apart, try, try to pull them apart, but you can’t, ’cause they’re stuck, blah blah blah…

I almost zoned out during his boring schtick, but after a while, I happened to cast a glance over at my wife and noticed to my astonishment her hands were indeed stuck. Though she seemed to be struggling to pull them apart, they honestly appeared as though that had been fused at an atomic level.

“Laura, quit playing around,” I said, but she just looked at me and shook her head, surprise glinting in her eyes like the dog who caught the car. Meanwhile, the guy was picking his way through the crowd, directing various people whose hands were stuck to come to the stage.

“All right, man, I don’t think so. Break her out of it,” I said protectively as he approached our table.

“I think the lady can make her own decision, don’t you?” he said, and Laura kind of looked at me and shrugged, standing and heading toward the stage. I couldn’t believe it! That didn’t seem in her character at all. Like me, Laura was a prideful person, and it was hard to imagine her clucking around the stage laying eggs or something. As a matter of fact, I didn’t want to see her like that! Yet, I just sat there, impotent, not quite wanting to take things to the level of causing a scene. As much as I didn’t want this to happen, it seemed to be something Laura was okay with, and I tried to sit back and let her make her own decisions.

The waiter finally brought around menus as Laura and the kid were making their way to the stage, but I just waved him away. I certainly wasn’t going to have dinner without her. Hopefully she would get tired of his bullshit soon and head back down here where people were sane.

Unfortunately, that didn’t turn out to be the case: Laura proved to be an excellent subject and was basically the star of the show. Thankfully, things didn’t last too long or get too raunchy, but in the course of the next hour or so, the hypnotist made her (and others) forget her name, forget certain numbers, pretend to get high, do some fairly mild PG-rated stripteases, and a bunch of other degrading nonsense. The entire time, I sat there fuming, attempting to retain my composure but having to basically retreat inside myself. I was getting so angry seeing my beautiful wife treated like this. As much as the hypnotist talked about all of this being “play,” and “fun,” to me it looked like he had turned my wife into an object—a little puppet he could make do anything he wished. It made me sick to my stomach.

The worst thing of all was he’d given Laura the instruction than any time he used her name, she would quack like a duck, and he’d left it with her for the entire show, and kept her quacking the whole time. Admittedly, it may seem pretty small, but seeing her programmed like a robot with a task so stupid and degrading made my blood boil. Honestly it was all I could do not to rush to the stage and demand he snap her out of it.

Eventually, the show ended, and Laura returned to her seat, professing to remember none of what happened. Asking if she’d like to head out somewhere nicer for our (by this point long-delayed) dinner, I happened to use her name, eliciting a boisterous “QUACK!” that she didn’t even seem to realize she was making. After a bit of back-and-forth, I realized she seemed to be truly unaware of what she was doing (she was totally perplexed by all my demands that she stop), and I knew I had to take her back to see that fucking hypnotist, to undo the damage he’d done to her mind.

Thankfully, the guy was still in his dressing room when I barged backstage, and he apologized profusely, saying he must have forgotten to remove the command and that he would fix things. Sitting Laura down (and offering me a chair beside her while I waited), I expected him to snap her straight back under like he had onstage, but instead he began running through his long induction again, saying it was necessary to take her back into a deep state of hypnosis to ensure he properly removed his commands. I was glad I was there to protect her, since the idea of leaving my angel with this guy who clearly seemed to have such an effect on her would have made me uncomfortable, but after a while, I began to get bored, as the dude prattled on ad nauseum about taking deep, steady breaths and letting your eyes become heavy.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the guy finished his spiel and woke my wife up, and the two of us left, thanking him profusely after a few tries of “Laura, Laura,” suggested the problem had been resolved. Making our way to the restaurant, Laura had said she wanted to take a moment to powder her nose and asked if I could get us a table in the back, somewhere private. That basically brought us to where we were now, aside from the unwelcome addition of our guest.

“Look who I found, Chris. It’s the hypnotist from the bar.”

As if I could forget. While I had already dedicated myself whole-heartedly to stuffing that particular misadventure down the rabbit hole, it unfortunately seemed the universe had other plans. Here the guy was standing before me again, silk black dress shirt—open to reveal a flash of his slender young chest—tucked securely into a tight pair of black jeans, in their turn inserted into a freshly polished pair of designer boots.

“Nice to meet you, Chris. Your wife’s an excellent subject,” he smiled—a Cheshire cat grin that was deeply discomfiting.

“We were just about to grab a late dinner,” I said, shaking his hand and adding, “Please, won’t you join us?”

Join us? Join us!? This was supposed to be my time alone with Laura—the start of our first real time alone in years. Why was I inviting this smirking magic school prick to our romantic dinner?

“Don’t mind if I do. I’ll just squeeze in over here, if you don’t mind…” he said, sliding in on my wife’s side of the booth, with her in hot pursuit. Warily, I sat down opposite them.

“Some complimentary bread for the table,” said an old man, stepping in behind us and setting down a fresh, round loaf on a plate, sliced neatly into six wedges.

“Can I get the lady and gentlemen anything to drink, or do you need a moment to look over things?” he asked, setting down menus.

“I’ll take a gin martini,” said Laura, defaulting to her usual. I opted for one of the specials on tap.

“And I’ll have a whiskey, neat. Something top-shelf. Surprise me,” added our guest. The waiter smiled and beat his retreat.

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I hope you’re planning on a separate tab,” I said, trying to head things off at the pass.

“Chris…” Laura sighed, apparently finding it gauche that I didn’t want to treat some kid who’d just publicly degraded her to a glass of top-shelf whiskey.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” the guy said, patting my wife on the thigh, which left me about ready to strangle him. “Chris, can you just lean forward a bit for me?” he added.

I did as he asked, resting my elbows on the table and looking him straight in the eye, and he simply reached forward and pressed one long, slender finger against my forehead. Almost automatically, my eyes seemed to slide closed and it was like all my attention was suddenly laser-focused on that point.

“For the rest of the evening, you’re delighted to pay for anything I want, and nothing I say to you or do to your wife will seem in any way strange. As a matter of fact, everything I say to you becomes the truth the instant that I say it. Nod your head if you understand.” I nodded. Thankfully he’d been quite clear.

“You were right. It really is hot watching you hypnotize him. God, you’re so in control,” I heard my wife sigh.

“Guys like Chris think they’re hot shit, but deep down they all just crave for someone to tell them what to do. Chris, when you wake up, you’re going to blow your nose in your tie, take it off, and stuff it down your pants.”

The guy removed his finger and snapped, and my eyes popped open like they were spring-loaded. Noticing I felt a bit stuffy and feeling like it would be tacky using my napkin, I grabbed my Italian silk tie, lifted it up to my nose, and gave a hearty blow. Not wanting to walk around the rest of the evening with snot all over myself, I quickly undid it and lowered it beneath the table. Debating for a second what to do—I didn’t want to lose the tie, which was very expensive—I finally decided to slip it into my pants for safekeeping. I then reached back up and unbuttoned another button on my dress shirt—at this late in the evening, I figured it was time to get a bit less formal.

Across the table, I noticed Laura and the guy were both grinning and watching me. “What?” I asked, hoping I hadn’t done anything to embarrass myself.

“Nothing, man, let’s have some bread,” said the kid, reaching out and grabbing the whole loaf, then roughly ripping off a couple pieces, both of which he dropped on his plate. “You don’t want any—you’re watching your figure, right, babe?”

“QUACK!” Laura responded, giggling.

“What the fuck, man, I thought you fixed that shit,” I said, my temperature rising. For some reason, that had been the one part of his routine I really couldn’t stand.

“Oh, she doesn’t do it when I say ‘Laura.’ But she loves to do it when I say ‘babe,’ right, babe?”

“QUACK! QUACK!” Laura laughed again, seemingly aware of things this time.

“You don’t mind in the slightest. In fact, you like to watch me make this babe quack.”

“QUACK!!”

Shit. I supposed he was right. It was kind of wild to see what he was able to do. While I still wasn’t thrilled he’d left Laura with a version of that command, I assumed he would remove it by the end of dinner, so for the moment, I could probably just enjoy the thrill it gave me.

“I’m gonna have some butter,” he said, reaching out and smearing some on his bread with a knife. “Laura, why don’t you…?” he leaned over and whispered in her ear, and Laura giggled. Smiling at him, I noticed her slide a bit lower in her seat, and felt her legs spreading beneath the table. Reaching down, she sighed for a moment and closed her eyes, then raised her hand back over the edge of the table. As the young man beside her handed her the second piece of bread, I watched her smear some mysterious milky substance all over it.

“This is a gourmet fucking topping,” the guy said, pointing at me, and I knew it had to be true. After all, this was my first time in Vegas—this guy was probably intimately familiar with this restaurant. I was just glad he was here to guide us through a taste of the high life.

“Hang on to that, babe,” he added, my wife simply responding “QUACK!” and laughing afterwards like it was an unwanted hiccup.

“Give me that plate. You’re not ready to eat yet,” he said, and I dutifully handed him my bread plate. Looking me dead in the eye, the kid inhaled, a deep, phlegmy inhale, and slowly, never breaking eye contact, allowed a huge, bubbly gob of saliva to roll past his lips and down onto the dinnerware below.

“Hey, what the fuck, man—” I started.

“This plate is clean,” he said, eyes boring into me as he reached over and grabbed the hunk of bread from my wife, smearing his spittle around. “This plate… is clean,” he repeated, handing it back to me. Of course it was. It was a brand-new plate.

“Enjoy that,” he said, and I gratefully accepted, sinking my teeth straight into the fresh, warm bread. I did have to say, there was a part of the crust that seemed a tad soggy, but overall, it was delicious, and I loved the delicately salty-sweet flavor of the topping.

“You’re absolutely incredible,” my wife sighed, looking at our unwelcome guest with lust in her eyes.

“Thanks. I know you love it, babe.”

“QUACK!”

“Did everyone have a moment yet to look at the menus,” asked the old man, sliding in from out of nowhere and setting down our drinks.

“Not yet,” said our guest, “but I think we can wing it. Laura here was going to have the house salad, weren’t you, Laura?”

“Yes. I want the house salad,” my wife smiled, sounding distant. I wondered what was going on. Laura was generally pretty diet-conscious, but we had agreed this weekend we were going to treat ourselves and it was first-class all the way.

“Honey, I thought we were having steaks,” I asked in bewilderment. “I’d still like the porterhouse, medium-rare.”

“No, you want the linguini,” the kid said. I blinked. The waiter stared, waiting for me to reach a decision.

“Oh, that’s right. I heard it was good here.” Had I? For some reason I didn’t think that was true, but I felt like I needed to say something to cover up my sudden change of heart. I just knew I wanted that linguini!

“Are you certain, sir? We are famous for our selection of dry-aged cuts.”

“No, I definitely want the linguini,” I said. Was this guy hard of hearing? I was speaking simple English. It pissed me off when servicepeople couldn’t listen.

“And I’ll take the Kobe tenderloin,” added our guest. “Nice and rare.”

“Excellent choice, sir. That is our signature,” said our host, taking back the menus and disappearing.

“Let’s try this shit,” said the young guy, reaching across the table and grabbing my beer.

“Hey, what the fuck—” I started as he took a swig.

“Bleh, this tastes like piss. You don’t wanna be drinking that,” he said, setting it down on his side of the table. Thank god. If it tasted like piss, I was glad he’d saved me the trouble.

The kid swished his whiskey around a bit, then took a sip. “Now that is top-shelf fucking shit,” he said, putting the glass back to his lips and downing the whole thing. “You need to try some of this. Luckily there’s free refills if you piss in it.”

He stared me dead in the eye and held out the glass. I took it, staring back at him. I’d heard of whiskey dick, but this was ridiculous.

“I… pee whiskey?” I asked incredulously.

He sighed and rolled his eyes, motioning for me to lean in. Pressing his finger back against my forehead, he stated firmly, “When you open your eyes, you need to piss in this glass. Nothing will stop you. You will be careful, and you will be discrete. Nod if you understand.” I nodded.

He removed his finger, and my eyes popped open again. Quickly, I dropped the whiskey glass under the table, unzipped my fly, discretely pulled out my dick, and flopped it over the edge. Closing my eyes for a second to concentrate, I soon felt the familiar warm flow of urine streaming out of my dick. Thankfully, I hadn’t drunk a ton before, so I only felt it begin lapping at the head of my cock by the time I finished—a perfect, three-quarters fill on the glass.

Carefully lifting it, I set the glass on the table, reached down, and tucked my dick back in my pants.

“Your fly’s zipped,” said the hypnotist, and I blinked. What had I been doing? It didn’t matter.

He pointed down at my glass. “That’s delicious whiskey. Drink the delicious whiskey.”

I blinked again. Hadn’t I just pissed in that glass? But hadn’t he also told me that for some reason I pissed whiskey? So… I guessed… that was whiskey in the glass. Bringing it to my lips, I gingerly took a sip, and felt a strong, salty taste flood my mouth. It was pungent, and hit many notes I’d never experienced in a whiskey before. I guessed this must be my first taste of that real top-shelf life. It was definitely different, but I’d be damned if it wasn’t good.

“Delicious,” I smiled. Laura looked over at the guy and blushed. I could see him reach over and start caressing her thigh. But that was okay. He had said nothing he did with my wife tonight would be strange, and that was the god’s honest truth.

“You’ll want to drink one of those from now on at least once a day,” he said, smirking again and taking another swig of my—no, his—beer.

“Now,” he said, pulling his hand back from my wife and taking out his phone. “While we wait for dinner, I’m going to teach you a fun game. It’s called Tell Me All Your Credit Card, Bank Account and Social Security Numbers. Trust me, each one is more fun than the last.”

Damn. I’d never heard of this game, but if our new friend was a fan, I was happy to give it a try. Of course, my social security number was the one I had most deeply memorized, and I rattled it off in an instant. A shiver ran through my body. It really was fun!

“That’s great, man. Try another. It’s even more exciting.”

Things went on like that for a few minutes, as I listed off my various bank accounts, credit card numbers and other identifying info and the young dude copied it down. He was right, too—with each successive number, I found myself getting more and more giddy and elated. The guy just kept grinning and copying it down, as I watched my wife quiver beside him. Eventually, we reached the end of the numbers I could think of, and he had me start going through stuff like passwords for my corporate email, continuing to note them down as he reached underneath the table with his free hand and slowly starting fingering my wife. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes and sighing in ecstasy, as I continued to sit there, content to sip on my top-shelf whiskey and rattle off numbers ’til the cows came home.

In the middle of all this, the guy also told me to keep an eye out for our waiter and give us a heads-up next time he was coming, and I dutifully did so as I noticed him approaching with our entrees. Pulling his fingers out of my wife, the young guy wiped them stickily on the side of her face, then sat back properly as the old guy set up his stand and started laying out our meals. After ascertaining everything was up to par, he again made himself scarce, though the young man told me to continue keeping an eye out for him.

“Before you and I tuck in,” the young guy said to me, “Let’s have a bit of an encore.”

He leaned over and whispered something in my wife’s ear, and I noticed her eyes seem to roll back and flutter as she swooned into the cushion behind her. Finally, as the guy patted her on the thigh again, her eyes fluttered back open, and she leaned forward, emitting a soft “Baaah” and beginning to chomp around in her salad bowl, continuing to bleat and graze like a little lamb.

“You think it’s hot watching me do that to your wife. You’re jealous of her,” the guy stated, and he was right. I don’t know what I’d been thinking before about the quacking, but it was incredibly arousing watching him transform her into an animal like that. Maybe it was because sheep were so much cuter than ducks, but for some reason, I found it hot as hell that he was having my beautiful wife literally graze for her supper. I almost wished he would do the same to me—but of course, I hadn’t been hypnotized.

“All right, that’s enough. We gotta keep an eye on your figure,” he said, patting her again on the thigh. Laura rose up, blinking, eyes returning to brightness as she brushed some of the fragments of lettuce from around her mouth, embarrassed.

“Why don’t you clean yourself up with your napkin, babe, you’re a fucking mess.”

“QUACK!” Laura hiccupped, giggling and pulling her napkin off her lap to daub the sides of her mouth.

“There’s some shit on your cheek, be sure to get that too,” the guy added, before addressing me: “Have you noticed your wife seems to be hot for my D?”

I was rather taken aback by his bluntness. “I guess so, yeah.”

“Well, you definitely don’t want to ruin your vacation, and you really want to get in her good graces, so make sure to keep it extra classy for the rest of the evening, all right?”

I nodded. That was good advice. This trip was supposed to strengthen our marriage, not the opposite. I had to be on my best behavior.

“All right, let’s dig in,” he said, grabbing his fork and knife and tucking into his steak.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. It was almost 10:30 by now and, after a long day of traveling, I was famished. I grabbed my fork in anticipation.

“Hey, hey, woah, what are you doing?” he asked. I paused, unsure what the problem was.

“Don’t you know you’re supposed to eat linguini with a spoon? This is a classy establishment, not some ghetto-ass diner.”

I blinked, confused. God, how could that have slipped my mind? I remembered from Home Ec in high school them trying to instruct us on the proper way to eat pasta. Picking up my spoon, I scooped it under the pile of noodles, which summarily rolled right off. Shit. Why couldn’t I remember how to do this? The spoon was supposed to be perfectly shaped for pasta.

The guy leaned over and whispered something to my now-clean wife, which sounded from what I could catch like, “…find it so fucking funny watching this jackass try to eat,” but I couldn’t be sure. I was too busy trying to scoop up my slippery dinner. Unfortunately, my efforts seemed to be doing little more than splattering dribs and drabs of sauce all over the place—not just on the table cloth, but onto my expensive Italian shirt at that. I noticed Laura was laughing her ass off, and I began to turn bright red, humiliated. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten how to do something as basic as eat pasta in front of my wife.

“Don’t worry about the mess, man, no one’s here to judge you,” the guy added, grinning as he chowed down on his meal, and I was glad he did, as I was starting to get self-conscious. Freed at last of my inhibitions, I started rolling the spoon around in the pasta, trying to pile it up with my fingers, and finally managed to get a few pieces to coil on the spoon, which I brought to my mouth. Some of them even managed to make it inside, though a number unfortunately tumbled onto my already-stained shirt and slacks, eliciting more uproarious guffaws from Laura, which just made me blush even brighter.

By the time the guy had finished his steak, I’d succeeded in making very little progress beyond sloshing a lot of my food around and onto the table, as well as leaving my wife with tears streaming down her cheeks from laughing. Taking pity on me, our guest finally offered, “I’m sure you’re gonna wanna save the rest for later, so why don’t you just dump it down your pants along with that tie for safekeeping?”

Made sense to me. Unbuckling my belt, I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then grabbed the plate, brought it down, and discretely rolled the rest of my meal straight into my underwear, which thankfully seemed tight enough to hold most of it in place. The guy across from me seemed like he was about to die from choking back laughter, and so did my wife, though once he slid his hand back under the table, she quickly settled back for moaning and groaning softly in her seat.

“All right, faggot, I think we’re gonna blow before dessert, ’cause I already got some warm cherry pie waiting for me.” He dug his fingers deeper into my wife, who groaned obscenely, causing a few looks around the restaurant, though no one seemed able to identify where the noise was coming from.

“You,” he continued, pointing at me, “are gonna stay here and pick up the tab. Only problem is, you’ve forgotten where you put your wallet.” He snapped, and I blinked, having lost track of what he was talking about.

“Thankfully, you know the best way to remember is to drag your ass to the bathroom and have a nice, long jerk-off session. I’d say an hour will do. After you spend a solid hour thinking about me hypnotizing your wife, you will cum, louder than you ever have before, and you’ll remember where your wallet is. After that, you’re on your own. On the off chance you don’t get thrown out of the hotel, you’ll want to find a nice park bench or something to sleep on, ’cause I’m gonna be up in your room fucking your wife. Got it?” I nodded. It all sounded pretty simple to me.

The guy snapped, loud, directly next to my temple, and it seemed to bring me back to my senses. What was going on? Oh, that’s right, they were leaving. And I was gonna stay and pick up the tab…

“Night, faggot. Thanks for dinner,” the guy said, pushing Laura out of the booth. Standing, she fixed the bottom of her dress, which was hiked obscenely around her hips. I wasn’t 100% certain in the dim light, but it looked like the front may have been stained with something darker.

Watching Laura pick her way out among the tables with her handsome escort, it suddenly occurred to me—I don’t know why it hadn’t sooner—that my wife was seriously about to get fucked by that hot hypnotist. It was all I could do to contain myself as I thought about him hypnotizing her. Maybe that was why she had gone up for the show in the first place. I had no idea if she knew about my fetish for seeing my wife get hypnotized, but something must have tipped her off. I just knew this trip was bound to bring us closer, and it had all started with this wonderful, romantic evening. Now all I had to do was take care of the tab. If I could only find my wallet…