It was 11:11 a few minutes ago. Coincidence? Well, this was hardly an experience I'd have wished for.

My stomach felt worse and worse as the hours went by. It kept me up. I barely reached the small wastepaper can in time. I didn't want to Killers complaining about the smell, so I picked up the can, and quietly eased my door open. The house was dark, and no one else seemed to be awake. I tip toed down the stairs, and out the back door. I felt tingly with nerves, scared as a child in the dark. The full moon cast large shadows with the trampoline and diving board. I couldn't find a big trash can, so I edged to one of the pristinely pruned bushes, and emptied the can's contents into it. If it was discovered, so what? I doubt I'd be here very long anyway.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. The surface tension of the liquid in my stomach was so tight already that at the tap some of it's contents sprang upwards, and fell back with a gloop. I spun around, raising the can like a weapon.

"Ew." said the tapper. "Can you put that down? The smell is, quite frankly, revolting."

From what the dim moonlight showed me, he was in his twenties, dark hair, a profile reminiscent of Frankenstein's monster, and a bow-tie.

"What do you want?" I asked, like the genius I was.

"Weren't you listening? I want you to put the putrid cesspool down. It's putrid."

"No." I said, succintly. "What are you doing here? This isn't your house."

"Is it yours?" he countered.

"No, but-"

"Do you know it's not mine?"

"No, but-"

"Then I have as much right to be here as you, don't I?"

"I live here!" I managed.

"Then it is your house." he said, looking at me like I'd cheated him.

"Well, I don't own it."

"Don't get cheeky. What's wrong with your hair?"

"It's blue." I informed him.

He peered at me warily for a moment.

"...Are you Japanese?" he asked, carefully.

"Alright, you indubitably shouldn't be here." I said, refusing to be amused.

"Are you frightened of me?" he asked, softly.

"By no means."

"Yes, you are. Don't be." He dove his hand into his pocket, and rummaged.

Gun, my brain supplied, and I hefted my can.

"Calm down." he said. "It's only a torch."

He took out a small, silver flashlight, and turned it on to reveal kind blue eyes.

"There. That's better, isn't it?" he said. "Here, eat this. It'll make your tummy all better."

"Sorry," I said, "I was taught never to accept candy from strangers."

"I'm the Doctor." he said. "What's your name?"

"Strayli."

"Nice to mee you, Strayli. Now can you eat it?"

"No."

"Why-yuh?" he whined.

"Because I suspect it may be a date-rape drug."

He crinkled his nose.

"Ew." he said. "No, wait- ew. No, wait, ew! Yeah, you're right." He unwrapped the candy. "For all you know, it might be."

He popped it into his mouth.

And immediately spit it out.

"Yuckyuckyuck." He wiped his tongue off on his sleeve. "Barf-Nots are yucky. Bad, bad Barf Nots."

"Why are you here?"

"Good question. Excellent question. I may say, fantastic question!"

"What's the answer?"

"I don't know."

I was starting to like this man, despite my fear.

"Well, could you please abscond?" I asked. "The Killers will be incensed if they find you here."

"The Killers?" His face grew concerned, and serious. "Whos been killed? Are you in danger?"

"No, that's my foster parents' last name, believe it or not."

"I believe it!" he said, brightening up. "I can believe in lots of things!"

"Glad to hear it!" I said. "Do you believe in the police?"

"Yes."

"Then go."

He went to the gate, opened it, and looked back at me.

"So, um," he said, "...Bye."

And he was gone.