Here's this week's entry inspired by this prompt:
The Lost Weekend
My friends call me the Ultimate Tourist or World Traveler. I prefer to think of myself as a Collector of Experiences. These postcards aren’t postcards, really. I have them specially made in that sepia tone to make them look old. Buried inside each one is a data crystal that reproduces for the holder the entire experience of my travels. All the luscious sights and smells, the caress of the breeze on my face, the echoes of a choir filling a magnificent cathedral’s nave. It’s all in there. Hold the card just right and you become, well, me.
Yes, I’ve been all around this world, and many others in fact. That’s my job. Travel half-way across the galaxy, spend a year or so in a native body collecting experiences, then catch a ride back home where I can sell them to the sim networks. That’s the way it’s supposed to work, but on this planet with its strange inhabitants, nothing happens the way it’s supposed to.
I was advised that a fresh human body doesn’t handle alcohol well, so I strictly avoided it—until last night. But I figured there was one very popular human experience that I had never collected: a Lost Weekend. So, with my transport off planet and the prospect of shedding this human body scheduled for Monday morning, I set off on Saturday for a tour of the local nightspots.
Nobody told me how good beer and this stuff called bourbon tastes! I met a woman. We talked, we cheered for the local team, we sang, we danced, we … well, I don’t really remember much else. But I must have demonstrated my Experience Cards, because now it’s Tuesday, I’ve missed my flight, most of my Cards are gone, and boy does my head hurt.