I woke up with a serious headache. When guys in detective novels wake up from being knocked out, they slowly get up, give their head a shake, and then take off after the bad guy.
I don’t mean to disillusion you, but that’s horseshit. My head was pounding and I felt seasick: I won’t be running after bad guys any time soon.
There was a tentative knock at my door. I decided to ignore it for the relative comfort of my couch.
The door swung open, and Jeff came running in with his fists over his head, screaming a battle cry of “DIRTY FUCKERS!!”
“Jeff! Goddamit, not so loud!”
He stopped, but kept his fists high as he looked around the apartment. He finally put his hands down. “It’s okay, Paul. They’re gone.”
I tried to sit up, but fell back onto the couch.
Jeff sat in the chair beside me. “Dude, you look like shit.”