Okay, this isn't exactly a poem, but it isn't exactly a story either. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what it is. It's a stream-of-conciousness narrative thingy, I guess. It's from Hobbes' point of view, but that's kind of self-evident. So here goes...
**********
My nose itches.
I'm tied up in a warehouse with two men pointing guns
at my chest, and all I can think about is that my nose itches.
I'm waiting for Fawkes to come get me.
If he can find me, that
is.
Of course, how he could find me in the middle of nowhere is anyone's
guess.
But still, I know he's coming for me.
I can feel it in my
bones.
He's my partner; he won't leave me here.
My nose still
itches...
How did I get in this situation?
Ahh, that's simple.
We were on a
job trying to catch this guy who was running a drug cartel and it kind of
flopped.
Turns out our informant was working for the guy we were trying to
catch, too.
He must've knocked me out or something, 'cause I don't remember
how I got here and my head still hurts something awful.
Man, my nose
itches.
What was that?
I thought I heard something.
Oh well, I guess it was
nothing.
Or maybe not, judging from the way that guard just slammed into the
wall for no apparent reason.
And of course, I can't rule out the fact that
his machine gun is now floating in mid air above the other guard's
head.
Okay, now the other guard's been knocked out.
Fawkes appears, with
one of those smug grins on his face.
I have just one thing to say to
him.
"Hey Fawkes, will you scratch my nose?"