Holy &#^#%
What the deuce?
Startled and confused by the old man staring at me from a few inches away from my bed, adrenaline coursed through my veins. Yes, this is real; yes, you are awake, I told myself even as I struggled to grasp what was happening. The old man wasn’t moving, he was just staring, and what felt like minutes to adjust to my new reality was still only 15 or so seconds.
I’ve mentally prepared for this.1 So I gently moved my hand towards my bottle of mace I keep close by, and it’s not there.2 If the old man noticed my hand movement, he hasn’t shown it. He is still standing there, too close for comfort, but far enough that he hasn’t approached. As I reach for my next weapon of choice,3 the old man starts to back away. That doesn’t relieve me, but another 10 seconds have passed and I am more aware now. He turns to his left and begins to walk back towards the door. By now my hand is fully on my weapon, and my eyes have also adjusted. I slowly sit up, and am confused by the old man’s tail wagging as he walks away.
Goddamit Knox. I left your crate open.
The adrenaline is still pumping but I slide my weapon back into its spot. I check the time. 10:34. I know I went lights out at 10:14, and the episode probably took 3 minutes. So that’s 16 minutes from when I went to sleep until this began. And I was in a deep, deep sleep.
How can that be? Sure, I was wiped from a long weekend with the fellas and the gang, honoring the great one, blessed be he.4 And yes, my naps have been ludicrously terrible. We all know I missed one Saturday due to the shenanigans, but I’ve been on a real tough roll recently — whiffing badly at either length of nap or depth of lost consh.5
And yet here I was, deeply and quickly in lost consh, after 16 minutes. What gives? Ah yes — I had experimented with a cheat code. Sweet corn, it worked!
More on what it was tomorrow.6
Why? Because I have a family and fathoming scenarios that could hurt them, and my response, is what you do.
I gave it to the SLF recently as she deals with the dire scourge of violent crime in NYC.
This one far more decapacitating, tho not lethal, unless you are thirsty for more, in which case it would be.
But as they say for any slump, you gotta keep shooting the ball. Just ask John Starks who went 2/17 in Game 7 against the Rockets in 1994. Actually, don’t ask him. That’s the last game basketball mattered in the world.
Even though the Word Police for this week isn’t giving tickets. I only want to straddle the line between annoying Matt and abuse the spirit of our commitment to our readers to keep these short.