of his mirror had to be another hallucination. That meant his delusions were getting worse. And then there was the hippie woman throwing around lightning bolts. A police shrink would have a field day with him.
Paul managed to put three blocks between him and his building when a police car turned the corner two blocks up, sirens screaming and lights flashing. It came his way and he tried to flag it down but it roared past him, came to a stop in front of his apartment. Moments later two more squad cars joined it, all three parked at odd angles in front of the building, lights flashing and sirens now silent.
Paul considered turning back now that help was at hand, but if the cops were going to shoot it out with those thugs he didn’t want to end up in the middle of that. But walking hurt like hell and he could barely stay on his feet so he couldn’t go on. And as the sidewalk beneath his feet swayed like the deck of a ship he staggered to the steps leading up to someone’s front door, sat down clumsily on the lowest step and buried his face in his hands.
“Come on, ye fool,” the midget said. “You can’t stay here.”
The little fellow was right. Paul struggled to his feet and swayed drunkenly. “Lead the way.”
The midget ran ahead.
“Young man,” a deep male voice said. “Are you ill?”
Paul turned to find a tall stranger with unusually black skin standing next to him. “You’ve been hurt!” the man said, his voice filled with concern. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”
“Crazy people,” Paul said, unable to get the words out without slurring them. “Broke into my apartment and tried to kill me.”
“My god!” the man said. “What’s this neighborhood coming to? There’s a fire station just a few blocks from here, and I know they have an ambulance and paramedics. Let’s get you to some help.”
He gripped Paul’s arm on the uninjured side and the old fellow was surprisingly strong. Paul leaned on him heavily as they staggered down the street, the midget running well ahead of them. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. His coal-black skin plucked the chord of a memory hidden somewhere within Paul, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t recall it.
They turned a corner and the fire station loomed halfway down the block. As they staggered toward it Paul said, “Thank you, Dayandalous,” though he couldn’t remember where he’d heard that name.
The man stopped in his tracks and looked at Paul carefully. “Very good, Paul,” he said. “That you remember anything is a real testament to your possibilities.”
Paul looked into the man’s face, and the streetlight reflected blood-red from his eyes. “We shall meet again, Paul,” the man said.
Paul squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and when he looked again the man was gone. He looked up the street, saw no sign of the fellow and decided he must’ve imagined the whole thing. He turned back toward the fire station and limped on, his left shoe making squishy noises, which seemed odd until he realized the shoe had filled with blood from the splinters in his leg.
As he approached the fire station the midget stepped into his path and stood blocking his way with his hands on his hips. “I’ll have to leave you now, young fellow. Just remember your mundane friends can’t be helping you in this. Oh, they can heal your wounds but they can’t heal your soul.”
Paul stepped around the little fellow, saying, “The last thing I need is riddles from some midget in a clown suit.”
“Midget!” the little fellow shouted. Somehow he’d gotten in front of Paul, though Paul hadn’t seen him move. He was just there, again with his hands on his hips. “Sure, I ain’t no midget, you daft fool. And I’ll have you know I prides meself on the cut of me attire, better than most. Few of the little people cuts a finer figure than Jim’Jiminie.”
Paul shook his head, decided the little fellow was another hallucination,
Paul managed to put three blocks between him and his building when a police car turned the corner two blocks up, sirens screaming and lights flashing. It came his way and he tried to flag it down but it roared past him, came to a stop in front of his apartment. Moments later two more squad cars joined it, all three parked at odd angles in front of the building, lights flashing and sirens now silent.
Paul considered turning back now that help was at hand, but if the cops were going to shoot it out with those thugs he didn’t want to end up in the middle of that. But walking hurt like hell and he could barely stay on his feet so he couldn’t go on. And as the sidewalk beneath his feet swayed like the deck of a ship he staggered to the steps leading up to someone’s front door, sat down clumsily on the lowest step and buried his face in his hands.
“Come on, ye fool,” the midget said. “You can’t stay here.”
The little fellow was right. Paul struggled to his feet and swayed drunkenly. “Lead the way.”
The midget ran ahead.
“Young man,” a deep male voice said. “Are you ill?”
Paul turned to find a tall stranger with unusually black skin standing next to him. “You’ve been hurt!” the man said, his voice filled with concern. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”
“Crazy people,” Paul said, unable to get the words out without slurring them. “Broke into my apartment and tried to kill me.”
“My god!” the man said. “What’s this neighborhood coming to? There’s a fire station just a few blocks from here, and I know they have an ambulance and paramedics. Let’s get you to some help.”
He gripped Paul’s arm on the uninjured side and the old fellow was surprisingly strong. Paul leaned on him heavily as they staggered down the street, the midget running well ahead of them. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. His coal-black skin plucked the chord of a memory hidden somewhere within Paul, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t recall it.
They turned a corner and the fire station loomed halfway down the block. As they staggered toward it Paul said, “Thank you, Dayandalous,” though he couldn’t remember where he’d heard that name.
The man stopped in his tracks and looked at Paul carefully. “Very good, Paul,” he said. “That you remember anything is a real testament to your possibilities.”
Paul looked into the man’s face, and the streetlight reflected blood-red from his eyes. “We shall meet again, Paul,” the man said.
Paul squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and when he looked again the man was gone. He looked up the street, saw no sign of the fellow and decided he must’ve imagined the whole thing. He turned back toward the fire station and limped on, his left shoe making squishy noises, which seemed odd until he realized the shoe had filled with blood from the splinters in his leg.
As he approached the fire station the midget stepped into his path and stood blocking his way with his hands on his hips. “I’ll have to leave you now, young fellow. Just remember your mundane friends can’t be helping you in this. Oh, they can heal your wounds but they can’t heal your soul.”
Paul stepped around the little fellow, saying, “The last thing I need is riddles from some midget in a clown suit.”
“Midget!” the little fellow shouted. Somehow he’d gotten in front of Paul, though Paul hadn’t seen him move. He was just there, again with his hands on his hips. “Sure, I ain’t no midget, you daft fool. And I’ll have you know I prides meself on the cut of me attire, better than most. Few of the little people cuts a finer figure than Jim’Jiminie.”
Paul shook his head, decided the little fellow was another hallucination,
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