This is the continuation of a story. You can read the rest here.
I don’t remember having gone to sleep, but I just woke up. I can’t see anything besides the blinding pain on the back of my head. Even my pain is in pain. Don’t ask me about personification; apparently I have a head injury.
I can’t see anything. I open my eyes and I still can’t see anything. I try my other senses. I taste blood and smell something I’d rather not think about at the moment. Let’s just say it has to do with bodily functions and my brain not controlling mine in a way that a responsible adult brain should.
I feel something, too. Based on my limited knowledge of planet earth, it feels like movement. I could be wrong though; it could just be my brain wriggling around, trying to find an escape route out of our damaged skull.
Alright then, we have pain and movement. Now we’re getting somewhere, possibly literally. Where am I? Last I recall, I was in a dark spooky house in the mountains doing a pretty good job of scaring the wits out of myself, not that there’s much to scare. A small child saying “boo” would probably do the trick.
Am I vertical? No, I don’t believe so. Am I horizontal? It seems more likely. What am I lying on? It’s rather bulgy. I try not to think of greased up body builders in banana hammocks as I reach behind me. I fail. I feel around and am relieved not to find anything shaped like a greasy banana. What I find is more like a very large stale donut. Most likely, it’s a tire. I sit up way too fast and hit my forehead on something. Ow. Now, the back and the front of my head hurt. Most excellent.
I forgot all about the movement part of our waking experience until it stops. I hear voices; close, but muffled like they’re talking inside a pillow factory. Am I in a pillow factory? Doubtful. I can’t make out what they’re saying or even if they’re voices. I suppose it’s more accurate to say I hear noise.
The movement starts again. Slowly, at first, then so fast that I can no longer hold my place on top of the tire, like the worst Tire Adventure amusement park ride ever.
I just woke up again. I still can’t see anything and my pain has given birth to another generation of pain. I have pain grandchildren in parts I can’t even point to on a map. Time for another nap.
This is the last time I’m going to wake up today. Well, unless not waking up means I’m dead, then I fully intend to wake up. I guess I should say there will be no more sleeping.
I see a dimly lit car trunk. Of course, it’s a car trunk. Where else would one store a tire and me? It would be very surprising if there was a body builder in here with me, but there’s plenty of room for one. Why am I still thinking of bodybuilders?
I’m simultaneously pissed and mildly hopeful to discover that I’m in my own car’s trunk for my trunk is a bit of a black hole. Things go in, but rarely come out, and if they do, they’re not in the same form as when they went in.
In my trunk, there’s an emergency kit with matches, jumper cables, bandages, water, a blanket, a hand-crank flashlight, poncho, gloves, multifunction shovel, screwdrivers, a reflective triangle warning sign, a flare, and a spare pair of sunglasses, a necessity I added when I put the kit in my trunk.
Also in my trunk, which I’m not as proud to list off: a bag of kitty litter, a copy of Gilgamesh, an empty gas can, the window roller-upper handle thing and the chrome trim I’ve been meaning to reattach to the passenger door, a dog leash, several shopping bags, and a dried out, yet still unused tin of wheel polish. I really should have polished my rims before they totaled my car. How embarrassing.
Goons. Only goons would push a car down a cliff expecting that to be the end of the car and me. Goons have no imagination or follow through. Whoever hired them would be very annoyed if they knew I was still breathing. They should really demand their money back, because I am under the impression that I am still breathing.
Well, since I’m in a car trunk, that seems to indicate that I’m on the right track to find the girl. Unfortunately, it also seems as if it’s not a cut and dry “find the girl” case, since that type typically doesn’t end you up dead or tossed off a cliff inside the spacious trunk of a Buick, unless you’re just the type who has a lot of enemies. I make sure I’m not that type. I’m a cuddly bunny. I’m going to have to start charging more for my services.