Scene Twenty Seven
In which our hero regains consciousness.
Greg felt very muzzy, and the back of his head felt sticky. He didn’t remember hitting his head, he didn’t remember a lot actually. He lay there; in what he felt sure was grass, until it occurred to him that not being able to remember the recent past was not a normal thing.
There had been a crazy Dwarf, yes, and he had been yelling, and there had been guns, danger, that was right, and Free Flower, she had drawn her sword, why had she done that? No answer came; he resolved to think about it more when the time was convenient.
What had he done? He had grabbed the closest thing, the Dwarfs helmet, right. Greg’s brow furrowed, a cultural artifact, that could get him killed the next time he met the dwarf, ah well, he was going to be killed this time as well.
Why had he taken the helmet? Right, he had done the levitation trick. Down a cliff face! Had he really done it down a cliff face? He looked up, apparently he had.
The Dwarfs must still be up there he thought, there was no way they would have assumed he was dead. After he had taken a Dwarf’s helmet, they would have thought nothing of climbing down the cliff and seeking out his corpse, just to desecrate it.
Where was the helmet? He focused around him and found the helmet within arm’s reach, there was blood on one of the horns. He felt the back of his head gingerly, it was a fairly deep cut but it seemed to have closed, and it matched the horn, so that was one mystery solved.
What else was injured? He focused on his own body, and virtually every part lined up with a complaint. He was bruised, and shaken, and scratched everywhere, and his leg seemed to be broken. He focused on his leg, it was in a lot of pain, and it seemed to have an extra, unusually flexible, knee. Yep it was broken. Bugger.
Greg knew that he had to move, he had to move now; if at all possible he would like to have moved several minutes ago. But a man can’t just amble away on a broken leg, and then there was the question of just where he was going. Anywhere; as long as it’s not here, he answered himself, and he set about looking for something to use as a crutch.
While doing this he glared at the helmet, it was no help at all. He also yelled, “Help!” in a loud clear voice, more for the sake of completeness than because he expected anyone to hear. He also threw himself out of the way to avoid the bright yellow taxi, which swung out of nowhere and almost hit him.
This is it, thought Greg, I’ve lost it; finally, I’ve lost it. He watched as a huge, hairy, blond man leaned out of the window and stared at him. Maybe I got shot on that cliff top and I’m delirious from blood loss. The man opened his mouth. Maybe this is the afterlife; maybe the afterlife is a little Transylvanian meadow, filled with huge, hairy taxi drivers. Something weird must be going on, because there are some serious problems with this being real. The man spoke, he said, “You call Help, I answer, I am Crazy Sven, I am being, how you say? Modern day Superhero!”