I fell down the stairs again. No idea how long I lay at the bottom, but when I finally came to, the steps looked just the same as they did on the way down. That's the trouble with falling: you can't see which way is up. Or is it the other way round?
For too many precious seconds, I'm some doddery old tart flung pell-mell from beyond-her-years mobility to beyond-her-wits paralysis, thanks to a pair of flowery slippers, or a scientist whapped too hard on the head by his own metaphysical ultra-ballistic kumquat.
Or maybe I'm just me.
When you come to from somewhere you don't recognize, 'being me' will do. So you take it, along with whatever else you find.
I figure I'm on top of the booze for the moment. I fall down seven times, see double, and get up fourteen, or fifteen at a push. That's what being a hero is all about. Say I.
So where's my fucking costume? And why all the blood?
"Hey, could someone get another towel and some water for Mrs. Kapersky? And hose off the stairmaster."
"Again? You know, Ted, it occurs to me that a combination gym/bar wasn't such a hot idea after all."
Openining: Whirlochre.....Continuation: Anonymous