-May I help you, sir ?
-I don't know. Can you bring back the dead ?
-Er... no, sit. I can't do that.
-So, man, I am afraid you can't help me.
-Nobody can do that !
-You are right. Nobody.
He looked at the table, and sneered. It was a mess ! He began to count, but it was difficult. First, he counted twelve. Twelve ? It was okay. But... what was it, after twelve ? Thirteen... Thirteen ? Yes, it must be thirteen. Secondly... were they really twelve ? Because, you know, they moved. He saw one. Then, one second later, they were two. Then, one, again. And they moved treacherously. As long as you stared at them, nothing. But if you let them out of your sight...
He had to be more pragmatic. All he had to do was to take them, one at a time. What he saw was unreliable. He closed his eyes, concentrated himself, and opened them back. What he could grab would be undoubted... or not.
Those damned glasses were still moving. Now, they openly moved. But he would get them. He flashed a glance of hatred at them. They didn't seem to mind. Slowly, imperceptibly, he raised his right hand, and put his hand on the table. He was still staring at them, and those silly glasses didn't notice anything. Suddenly, quick as lightning, he swept them aside.
He tried.
But the move unbalanced him. He awkwardly swayed for a while and heavily fell on the ground, his head hitting the table. He thought that it was a quite miserable and stupid death for an Uncle agent.
The light woke him. A dazzling, hot, burning light. They had beaten him black and blue, kicked him. He could feel the blood gluing his eyes. But amazingly, he hadn't his hands tied. Perhaps they had thought that he was dead ? No, they would never do such a mistake. They were peeping at him. First, he had to know where he was. This time, nobody would come for him. He would have to manage.
He decided to turn his head, as naturally as he could. At the very first move, the said head exploded with pain. He automatically held his right hand to his forehead. It was sticky with blood. He had to clean his eyes. As he tried to get his left hand in his pocket, he felt several twinges, as if he had scratched it on broken glass. Not as if. He was scratching his hand on broken... glass. And then he remembered. Nobody would come for him. He would have to manage.
The sight was... distressing, heartbreaking. The apartment was a mess. The room was a mess. The table was a mess. Covered with glasses. With bottles. Empty. The smell was unbearable. Hard liquors... sweat... blood. He lied on the ground, flat on his stomach, his head turned on the right. A great gash from his cheekbone to his temple was bleeding. He needed help. But there was nothing he could do. Nobody he could wait for. He painfully managed to get down on all fours. He was making a fool of himself, he knew that, but nothing mattered much to him anymore.
-What the hell's going on, here, boy ?
He sat straight on the floor, and turned towards the familiar voice.
-Oh... You... There is nothing to worry about, Mikey. About ... me, anyway.
-You are the master of understatement, Napoleon. But... he wouldn't like it.