Choose Your Own
Nuthouse
Section 86
<>(Paul)Now, you think that anybody would be gracious enough to grant that final wish. And judging by this woman’s curvaceousness and the unmistakably cheerleader-esque quality of her voice, well, you’d be surprised if she turned you down even if she hadn’t just hit you with her car.
But, idiot that you are, it never crosses your mind that somebody else was driving the car. It should have, though, because this babe-a-licious hottie exited the car from the passenger side. You saw her do it, but were too distracted by her miniskirt to put things together. You also saw the driver-not female-get out. He is standing by your head.
Rather, he was standing by your head. Currently, the man’s relation to your head can best be described with the word ‘kicking’.
“Hey! Oi! Cut that out, you asshole!”
“Serves you right for hitting on my woman,” says the man. You recognize his voice. It is Dave. This is hilariously ironic, for if Dave knew how far beyond simple flirting you and his woman had gone…well.
Hilarious as it is, you do not laugh because Dave is stick knocking your head about with his foot.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t realize who it was! Stop kicking me, please!”
Dave decides to stop, which is lucky for you; one more kick and the side of your head would have caved in. Neither of you know this, though. It doesn’t really matter.
Anyway, ten minutes later it seems that you are, in fact, okay. You assure Dave and his woman of this. Banged up, sure. But mostly it’s all just bumps and bruises and a few hairline fractures and dislocations and stuff. You’re a tough guy, you claim. You can handle it. You shrug off the pain and make a big show of standing up on your own and walking to Dave’s car. It’s more difficult than it sounds, because your left foot isn’t quite pointing in the right direction. You manage it, though, and help yourself to a beer from Dave’s cooler. You manage to open it without crying. You’d never admit in front of a hottie like Dave’s girl that a couple broken fingers and some smashed carpal bones are an impediment to you. You lean nonchalantly against Dave’s car in a manner that you hope says, “Nothin’ like leanin’ and drinking a beer! No siree!” and not “My massive head trauma, loss of blood, and an unidentified foreign object’s obliteration of my cochlea have rendered my completely incapable of standing up!” It takes a great deal of effort to ignore the grinding sounds emanating from your humerus as you lift the beer to your lips and attempt to stop shaking long enough to drink.
“Ylc. Plrflptey hday!” You say. The non-paralyzed half of your face wrinkles into a frown. Something wasn’t right about that. It wasn’t as if your words were muffled by something in your mouth, such as food, or distorted by the spreading(!) paralysis. It was more like…you mentally grasp through the bright, pulsing fog that’s gradually replacing your consciousness…it’s almost like somebody swapped around a few of the keys on a keyboard. The input you think you’re creating is being corrupted somewhere on its trek to becoming output.
“I’m over here,” says Dave, from over there. You try to reconcile your visual cues and your auditory cues. They aren’t quite forming an accurate picture of your surroundings, it seems. Oh well. The same thing happens when you take a lot of your roommate’s prescription meds.
“Whatever,” you completely fail to say. (“Ghatlvlr,” is what actually comes out of your mouth, several seconds after your brain sends the command). You decide not to speak anymore; It just wouldn’t do to lose face like that in front of your best friend and his woman’s bodacious ta-tas. Instead, you try to toss back the remainder of your beer. Unfortunately, your humerus cannot take the abuse anymore, snaps completely in half, and you wind up just smacking yourself in the face as your arm flops around. You aren’t sure, but you think you do a good job of making it look like you’re laughing good-naturedly at your own crazy goof. Some realistic bit of you knows, though, that Dave and his woman must suspect that you’re not laughing. In fact, they might see through your attempt at manliness completely! You realize you must do something manly to play this off, so you transfer the can to your other hand. This takes some doing, since your concussion and inner-ear damage have destroyed your ability to be fully aware of your physical orientation. Ignoring your increasingly inaccurate sensory input you chuckle wetly and, in a glorious display of machismo in the face of adversity, crush the can against your head. It caves in.
Your head, that is. The can is unfazed.
It would seem that it really did matter that your skull was one blow away from total collapse. It’s a pity nobody realized it sooner; You might still be alive.
Okay, tough guy, head on back to Section 39.
Try not to be such a macho twit this time.