.

EPISODE 3: MAY 25, 1876

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

James West and Artemus Gordon always enjoyed the chance to go to New Orleans. Life was so different there compared to the dry, dusty, American west. On this occasion, they were there to investigate the kidnapping of the mayor's daughter. They'd successfully rescued her and returned her safely to her family, and Colonel Richmond notified them that he would have a new mission ready in the next few days, after he finished gathering information. The chance to spend a couple of stress-free days in New Orleans was more than welcome, and after having dinner at the best restaurant in town, the two agents slowly strolled down the street.

"This is the life, isn't it, Jim?" said Artie, as they walked.

Jim nodded. "It sure is."

"Maybe we should settle here after we retire."

Jim stopped walking. "Retire? Making plans already, Artie? You're not that much older than me, and I don't plan on retiring anytime soon."

Artie smiled. "No…being here just makes one see what life could be like if things were different." He tipped his hat at two passing ladies. "Someday, James…someday!"

Jim chuckled.

Suddenly, they heard a woman scream, and stopped walking.

"Where did that come from?" Artie asked.

Jim shook his head. "I'm not sure. You check this side of the street." With that, he took off.

Artie obeyed, taking out his gun before heading down an alley.

Jim quickly searched on the other side of the street, and the sound of a gunshot suddenly filled the air. Turning, he crossed the street again and looked for his friend and the source of trouble.

What he found wasn't what he expected.

Down the alley, he found Artemus lying on the ground, with blood dripping down the right side of his head.

"Artie!" Jim exclaimed. He holstered his gun and dropped to his knees, checking his friend for a pulse, and thankfully finding one. "Artie?" he said, gently shaking him, before pulling out a handkerchief and trying to see the wound, which was bleeding profusely.

People started to gather, having come running at the sound of the gunshot.

"Get a carriage!" Jim exclaimed to the crowd. "Did anyone witness this, or see anyone run from here?"

Everyone shook their heads or answered, "No."

With a sigh, Jim tried to wake his friend again, without success.

The carriage arrived within a few minutes, and one of the men helped Jim lift Artie and place him inside.

On the way to the hospital, Jim kept Artie's head in his lap, holding the handkerchief to the wound. Artie was completely motionless, which was very worrisome.

The hospital staff took control quickly, immediately bringing Artie into a room and examining his head. They didn't let Jim in, which he knew would happen, and he spent a long time pacing in the waiting room.

Finally, a doctor came in. "Mr. West?"

Jim headed over to him. "How is he?"

The doctor tried to look impassive. "As I'm sure you figured out, a bullet deeply grazed the side of his head. It required twenty stitches to close, and caused a concussion. He is still unconscious."

Jim sighed. "Can I see him?"

The doctor nodded. "Of course."

Jim followed the doctor to the room, heading over to the bed and looking down at his friend.

Artie was very pale, with a bandage around his head.

Jim grabbed a chair, pulling it over and sitting down. "Artie?" he said, squeezing his friend's arm. He received no reply, and sat back with a sigh.

The doctor patted Jim's shoulder. "If he regains consciousness soon, he'll probably be all right."

Instead of making him feel better, the main words that Jim heard were 'if' and 'probably'.

The doctor turned and left the room, used to family and friends wanting to be alone with their injured loved ones.

"Artie," Jim said. "What happened? Who was in that alley? Who shot you?"

Jim's only answer was silence.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Artie…Artie…"

The voice was incessant, seeming to echo all around him, and he tried unsuccessfully to ignore it. His head was throbbing as if there was a heart beating inside it, and he groaned, trying to get away from whoever was increasing his pain.

"Artie?"

There was sudden pressure on his arm, and Artie groaned again, trying to pull away but feeling like he was stuck in mud.

"Artie…open your eyes."

"No," he somehow managed to croak.

Jim tightened the grip on Artie's arm, the sound of his friend's voice lifting his spirits. "Artie…open your eyes. I'm not gonna stop saying it until you do it, pal."

In response, Artie's eyes squeezed shut tighter, as he groaned again.

Jim looked up at the doctor, who was approaching with a syringe.

The doctor pushed up Artie's sleeve and injected his patient with a painkiller.

"Artie," Jim said.

"Stop," Artie whined.

Jim obeyed, not expecting that response. He kept the grip on his friend's arm, waiting for the painkiller to start working.

Artie was breathing heavily, eyes still closed. His body was tensed up, and Jim was able to feel when his muscles started to relax.

"Artie?" he whispered. "Can you open your eyes?" he asked, phrasing it differently this time, so as not to upset his friend further.

In response, Artie's eyes opened halfway. He blinked repeatedly, the light in the room too bright.

"Are you all right?" Jim asked.

Artie hesitated. "I don't know….what happened?"

Jim smiled, relieved to see that Artie seemed to be himself. "You were shot; grazed on your head. Can you tell me who did it?"

Artie blinked.

Jim noticed that his friend wasn't looking at him, and frowned.

"No," Artie finally answered.

"Do you remember anything that happened in that alley?" Jim asked.

Artie was quiet for a minute. "No."

Jim sensed that something was wrong. "Artie, look at me."

Artie didn't move.

Jim squeezed his arm again. "Artie," he said, worried.

Artie shifted his gaze to Jim's face.

"Can you see me?" Jim asked, afraid of what the answer might be.

"Yes."

Jim shook his head, glancing at the doctor, who looked concerned. "Than what's wrong? Why are you acting so strange?" he asked, looking back at his friend.

Artie's answer was immediate. "Who are you?"

Jim was stunned. He looked at the doctor, who bent over Artie and checked his vitals.

"Do you know your own name?" the doctor asked.

Artie frowned, before his expression turned frightened. "No, I don't!" He looked around…or tried to, without moving his head. "Where am I?"

Jim squeezed his friend's arm again. "Take it easy, Artie, your in a hospital, you're safe." He suddenly remembered that Artie had no idea who he was. "I'm James West, your friend…your partner."

"Partner?" Artie asked. "Partner in what?"

"You and I are government agents," Jim answered. "We investigate crime for the president."

Artie blinked, looking shocked.

"Your name is Artemus Gordon," Jim continued. "We travel the country in our own train…does any of this sound familiar?"

Artie blinked his eyes again, opening his mouth and closing it again before saying, "I—I think so."

Jim's anxiety dropped a notch at that. "What's the last thing that you remember?"

Artie frowned, thinking. The pain was too much and his vision started to spin. He unsteadily lifted a hand and placed it on his head, closing his eyes. His face turned paler.

"Don't bombard him," said the doctor.

Jim sighed. "Sorry, Artie…take it easy."

Artie lay quietly for a minute, hand still on his head. Suddenly, his entire body relaxed, and his hand slipped off.

Jim was taken by surprise, and the doctor grabbed Artie's wrist to check his pulse.

"He's all right," the doctor said. "Passed out."

Jim let out a breath, heavily.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The next time that Artie woke, he opened confused eyes, half-remembering what had happened the first time.

Jim was still sitting in the chair, and was surprised to see his friend suddenly wake. "Artie!" he exclaimed.

Artie looked at him, lifting a hand and placing it over his eyes. "Jim," he said.

Jim's eyebrows rose. Had he already regained his memory? "You remember me?"

"Yes…no. What?" Artie said, the last word to himself.

"What?" Jim echoed it.

"I think…" Artie said. He moved his head and gave Jim a familiar, intense look. "I think I knew who you were for a second, but then it left."

Jim sighed. Still, if his memory was already trying to return, then it had to mean that Artie would recover it quickly.

Artie gave the room a half-hearted glance, moving his eyes hurting his head too much. "I'm in a hospital?"

Jim nodded.

"How long?" Artie asked.

"Twenty hours since you were shot," Jim said.

Artie's eyebrows shot up. "It's been twenty hours?"

Jim nodded.

Artie sighed, closing his eyes again. "Did you find out who shot me?"

Jim shook his head, before realizing that Artie couldn't see him with his eyes closed. "No. I'm wondering if one of the kidnappers got away, and used the opportunity to strike back at us."

Artie opened his eyes. "Kidnappers?"

For the next fifteen minutes, Jim told Artie about the case that they'd been on, and all about their past.

"What do you remember, Artie?"

"Well," said Artie, thinking. "I feel that I know you, which is a relief. This would be so much harder if you were a complete stranger to me."

Jim nodded; glad to hear that.

Artie started to say something else, but changed his mind, closing his eyes and putting a hand to his aching head again. "It's…just too hard right now," he said, feeling dizzy again.

Jim squeezed his arm. "Don't worry about it. You'll be fine soon, I'm sure. Knowing me is proof of that."

Artie sighed. He was quiet for a minute, before suddenly asking, "When did we meet?"

"At the beginning of the Civil War," Jim said. "Fifteen years ago."

"The Civil War," Artie repeated. He frowned, trying to remember.

"President Grant was a general then, and I served under him," said Jim. "You were part of a different regiment at first, and joined forces with mine. Grant used us on many missions together."

Artie tried to pull up a memory, any memory. He was unsuccessful.

The next two days passed the same way, with Artie being familiar with Jim, but unable to remember any clear memories. The doctor reluctantly let him leave the hospital, and Artie leaned on Jim heavily as they walked out the door.

Jim stopped on the sidewalk, letting Artie look around and get his bearings. "Anything look familiar?"

Artie glanced around slowly. "Not really."

Jim watched for a carriage, quickly waving one down. He helped Artie climb inside, making sure he was comfortable before letting the driver leave.

Artie slumped in his seat, feeling weak. His head still ached fiercely, and he closed his eyes for a minute.

"You all right?" Jim asked.

Artie reopened them. "Fine," he said. He suddenly noticed the gunbelt that Jim had laid beside himself on the opposite seat. "Is that mine?" he asked.

Jim nodded. Sudden inspiration struck, and he took out the gun, handing it over.

Artie took it, spotting the AG inscribed on the handle. His eyes opened wider and he looked at Jim. "You gave me this as a gift."

Jim grinned. "That's right."

Artie smiled back, inspecting the beautiful weapon.

"Do you recall when?" Jim asked.

Artie shook his head, forgetting that it would hurt to do that. "No, but at least I remembered something!"

Jim smiled; glad to see Artie happy.

The carriage swayed as it went over the uneven road, and Artie winced. He took his hat off, as it was adding pressure to his injured head.

Jim sighed, wishing they knew who had done this to his friend.

The carriage eventually stopped and Jim jumped out first, reaching to help Artie get out, and holding onto him tightly when he swayed dizzily.

"Where are we?" Artie asked.

"You don't recognize this place?"

"No," Artie said.

Jim wrapped an arm around his friend to keep him steady. "Our favorite restaurant. This is where we ate just before you were shot."

Artie looked around, but didn't recognize anything. "Are we here to eat, or just to see if it sparks my memory?"

"Are you hungry?" Jim asked.

"No."

"Then we're here just to see if it sparks your memory."

Artie chuckled.

"Come on." Jim told the carriage driver to wait, keeping his grip on his friend and slowly guiding him down the sidewalk. He knew that he should've brought Artie straight to the hotel and put him to bed, but Jim was desperate for his friend to get his memory back, and hoped that having him look around for a few minutes wouldn't cause him any harm.

"Where are we going?" Artie asked.

"To the alley."

Artie easily figured out why, and said nothing.

A couple of minutes later, they arrived, and Jim brought Artie to the exact place where he'd found him.

Blood stained the ground.

"Mine?" Artie asked.

Jim nodded.

Artie silently glanced around where he stood.

Jim waited.

Artie eventually shot him an apologetic expression, looking paler than he'd been when they'd left the hospital. "There's nothing, Jim. Sorry."

Jim sighed. "It was worth a try." He helped Artie walk out of the alley, and waved for the waiting carriage to drive over to them.

A wave of dizziness suddenly swept over Artie, and he didn't realize that his knees had started to buckle until Jim's grip suddenly tightened.

"Artie!" Jim said, urgently.

"Jim?" Artie answered, blinking his eyes open.

"Hold on," Jim said, beckoning to the driver to hurry.

The carriage pulled up, and the driver, seeing Artie's state, jumped down to help Jim get him inside. Once that was accomplished, he hopped back up and quickly drove towards the hotel.

"Artie?" said Jim, gripping his arm.

Artie's head was lolling. It took a lot of effort to raise it and blink open his eyes.

Jim sighed at the dazed expression on his friend's face, and mentally kicked himself for forcing Artie on that excursion.

"I'm all right," Artie mumbled.

Jim wasn't so sure.

Once arriving at the hotel, the carriage driver helped Jim get Artie out and bring him inside. The desk clerk, knowing who they were, looked shocked at the sight and sent over a bellhop to help.

Artie was silent, looking half asleep as Jim and the bellhop practically manhandled him up the stairs. When they entered the room, they brought him over to a bed and gently laid him down.

Jim let out a breath. "Thanks," he said, handing the bellhop a coin. "Can you bring up a pitcher of water and a towel, fast?" he asked. Turning back to Artie, he didn't even hear the young man leave.

Artie's eyes were closed and he lay motionless.

"Artie?" said Jim. "You haven't passed out on me, have you?"

Artie smiled slightly at that. "No…not yet."

Jim grabbed a chair and pulled it over to the bed, sitting down. "How do you feel?"

"I feel like yelling at the world to stay still," Artie answered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Jim sighed. "Maybe you shouldn't have left the hospital yet."

Artie sighed. "I think I hate being in the hospital. True?"

Jim smiled. "True."

"Well, then."

There was a knock on the door and Jim crossed over to it, opening it and taking the tray that contained the things that he'd asked for. He came back to the bed and set it on the nightstand, before pouring water into one of the cups. "Here, Artie," he said.

Artie opened his eyes slightly as Jim helped him sit up high enough to drink. He reached up to take the cup, but Jim held it for him. After he drank every drop, Jim laid him back down, before pouring water onto the towel. "This should help," he said, pushing the bandage up a little and placing the cold towel over Artie's forehead and eyes.

"Oooh," Artie said, reaching up to adjust it. "Thanks, Jim."

Jim nodded and sat, watching his friend, studying everything that he could see; the faster than usual way that he was breathing, the utter limpness of his body, his pale face, and of course, the pain that Artie was trying to hide.

Jim sighed. Richmond isn't going to like this. With shock, he suddenly sat straight up. "Richmond!" he said.

Artie's body jerked slightly, startled. "What?" he exclaimed.

Jim reached forward and squeezed his friend's arm. "I'm sorry, Artie! Richmond, our supervisor at the Secret Service…remember I told you about him? He was supposed to send us a telegram detailing our next case. He said a few days…he might've sent it yesterday. I need to go downstairs to see if there's one waiting for us. Will you be all right alone for a minute?"

Artie smiled slightly. "I'm sure I'll survive a whole minute."

Jim smiled back and stood. "I'll be right back." With that, he headed for the door and left, dashing down the hall and staircase to the clerk's desk. "Any telegrams for me?"

The clerk nodded and handed him three.

Jim sighed and took them, running back up the stairs and to their room. He nearly burst through the door, but didn't want to startle Artie again, and entered quietly instead.

"Artie?" he said, heading over to the chair.

"Still alive," Artie answered.

Jim smiled and sat, opening the first telegram and glancing through the case details before putting it down and opening the next.

Did you receive my first telegram? –STOP- Is something wrong? –STOP- Please reply immediately. –STOP-

Jim sighed and opened the third one.

I'm assuming that you two got into some kind of trouble. -STOP- Not surprised, but worried. –STOP- Will send someone to New Orleans to find you if I do not receive a reply by tomorrow morning. –STOP-

The last telegram was sent that morning, so Jim was relieved. He needed to send Richmond a telegram back, but again, didn't want to leave Artie.

"Well?" Artie suddenly said.

Jim looked at him, realizing that he wanted to know what the telegrams said. "Richmond sent us a new case, and when we didn't reply, he sent two others asking what happened. He's going to send agents to look for us, so I need to answer him, fast." He headed over to the small desk against the far wall, and quickly wrote out his reply.

I apologize, Colonel, Artie was shot Sunday night. –STOP- Deep crease in his head, resulting in concussion and trouble with his memory. –STOP- Just got out of hospital. –STOP- Unable to leave New Orleans for at least a few days. –STOP-

Jim suddenly wondered if Colonel Richmond might think that they made it up in order to take a vacation in their favorite town.

Feel free to send telegram to hospital for information. –STOP- Address to Dr. Harris. –STOP-

Reading it over, Jim was satisfied, and he stood from the desk and looked at his friend, who was still immobile. "Artie?"

"Still here."

"I'm going to see if I can grab a bellhop to send this telegram for me," Jim told him.

"Okay."

Jim left the room again and headed partly down the stairs, looking over them and spotting the desk clerk. "Can you send that boy back up?" he asked.

The clerk nodded and rang the bell.

Jim went back into the room and sat on the chair, waiting for the boy. When he came to the door, Jim gave it to him with another coin and told him to wait for a reply, before heading to the window to see if he left the hotel and headed for the telegraph office. When he saw him go, he went back to his chair.

The boy was back within ten minutes…Richmond was obviously manning the telegraph himself, waiting to hear from them.

Very relieved to finally hear from you. –STOP- Next mission on hold until Artemus recovers. –STOP- Who shot him? –STOP- Convey to him my best wishes. –STOP- Please send daily reports on his condition. –STOP-

"What did he say?" Artie asked.

Jim read it to him.

"Sounds like a nice boss," Artie commented.

Jim had to smile at that. Richmond was a good man and friend to them, but he could certainly give people the what-for if he had to.

Artie slept on and off for the rest of the day. The town sheriff came to see Jim, and Jim brought him into the hall to speak so as not to disturb Artie.

"Mr. West," the sheriff said. "We found the woman who screamed that night."

Jim perked up. "And?"

"Well…this is going to sound ridiculous, but…" The sheriff sighed. "She claims that a mouse ran by in front of her, and she screamed at the unexpected sight of it in the dark."

Jim just stared. "A mouse."

The sheriff nodded. "A mouse."

Jim shook his head. "Then who shot Artie?"

The sheriff raised his hands in the 'I don't know' gesture. "With no one having accosted the woman, there's not a single clue to go on."

Jim sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Maybe it was an accident, and the person ran," said the sheriff.

"Whoever it was aimed for his head," said Jim. "That doesn't sound like an accident to me."

"I agree," the sheriff said.

Jim sighed again. "All right. Let me know if you come up with anything else."

The sheriff nodded. "Will do."

Jim opened the door and went back into the room, heading over to the chair and sitting down again.

"Who was that?" Artie suddenly asked.

Jim told him what the sheriff had said.

Artie opened his eyes. "A mouse?" he said. "I got shot in the head thanks to a mouse?"

Jim stood and started pacing. "It doesn't add up, Artie. Either the woman is lying, or her presence was a coincidence…maybe the shooter was following us, and when we split up, he kept after you and shot you when you were alone in the alley."

Artie closed his eyes; watching Jim's back and forth motion was making his head hurt worse. "That makes sense except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"From the angle of the bullet's track on my head, it came from in front of me."

Jim nodded. "True." He shook his head and sat down. "I think we should leave New Orleans right away. It looks like we won't be able to solve this, so your life will be in danger for the rest of the time we're here."

Artie looked up at him. He didn't think a train ride would be good for his head, but Jim was right. "When do we leave?"

"Tonight," Jim said. "It'll be easier to get away unnoticed in the dark."

Artie sighed.

Just after 9 o'clock that night, the bellhop loaded Jim and Artie's bags onto a carriage, before going inside and helping Jim get Artie out.

Artie was silent, allowing the two men to hold onto him one on each side and whisk him out the door and to the carriage. They carefully helped him in, and Jim tossed the boy another coin before jumping in himself.

Quickly, the carriage drove off, towards the train station.

"Well," said Jim. "That went smoothly. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Artie said, fighting the urge to put a hand on his head. That had all happened much too fast, and his head was throbbing.

It only took five minutes to get to the station, and Jim told the driver to take their bags to the train first, before he helped Artie out of the carriage and quickly helped him over to it.

The sight of the train sparked recognition in Artie's mind, but he said nothing, not wanting to distract Jim.

Jim helped Artie up the steps, opened the door, and ushered him inside, locking it behind himself.

Suddenly, a loud whistle blew; from another train that must've been arriving. Artie couldn't help it. He raised his hands and held his head, as the whistle shot through it like some inhuman torture device.

Jim tightened his grip on him, lowering him into the nearest chair…the one at the desk.

Artie opened his eyes a minute later, and the first thing he saw was the telegraph.

Suddenly, it all came back.

In his mind, he saw Jim sitting beside him at the table as they discussed their current case. He saw Jim standing beside him as he sat at this very desk, writing down an incoming telegram. He saw Jim seated on the couch with a beautiful woman with a champagne glass in his hand, and then he saw another woman, yelling and throwing things at them. He remembered ducking to avoid a pillow, but then accidentally walking into the path of a book, the sharp spine corner smacking him on the head, which had hurt for days after.*

Artie started laughing at the memory.

"Artie?" Jim said, concerned, kneeling beside the chair to look into his friend's face.

"I remember, Jim…I remember it all." He reached out and clasped his friend's arm. "It's good to see you…and really know who you are."

Jim smiled, clasping Artie's arm in response. He sighed with relief. "You sure had me worried."

Artie echoed the sigh. "I know. Sorry." Suddenly, his face dawned with shock, and he dropped his head into his hands. "Oh no," he said. "Jim…oh Jim…"

Jim stood and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Artie, what is it?" he exclaimed, worried.

Artie glanced up at him, before looking away. "Jim, no one shot me."

Jim's eyebrows flew up to his hairline. "What?"

Artie sighed. "Where's my gun?"

Puzzled, Jim took it out of his back waistband, having planned to use it as a backup if Artie's attacker had come after them.

"Open it," Artie said.

Jim obeyed. "There's a bullet missing," he said, with surprise.

In response to that, Artie pointed at his own head.

"I don't understand," Jim said.

Artie sighed again and covered his eyes with his hand, as if he didn't want to continue his tale. "When I went into the alley, a mouse—the same one, I assume—had apparently been on top of a crate, and as I passed it, the rotten critter jumped right across my path. It crashed right into my gun, and I dropped it. I'd pulled the hammer back before entering the alley, so…when it landed, it fired."

Jim just stared. He tilted his head, blinked, and said. "You're serious?"

Artie sighed, and nodded his throbbing head.

"You're not joking?"

Artie shook his head.

Jim was speechless. He heavily sat on the desk. "Artie…"

"I know," Artie said. "What an idiotic thing to have happen."

"Artie," Jim said again, face paling. "You almost accidentally killed yourself!"

Artie closed his eyes. "Don't remind me."

Jim took a deep breath, his lungs feeling slightly constricted with shock over what could've been. He could only imagine how Artie felt, and reached out to squeeze his friend's shoulder. "Try not to think about it," he said, telling himself as well as his friend. "You survived, and will be fine."

Artie sighed. "You're right…and at least we don't have to wonder who's slinking around New Orleans trying to bump me off. It was making me wonder if it would ever be safe for me to come back." He suddenly looked up. "Jim…this means that we don't have to leave."

Jim nodded. "True."

"Why don't we go back?" Artie said, hoping to change Jim's focus, feeling sorry to have scared his friend.

"We could," Jim said. "But not tonight. You need your rest, and I'm sure that you'll be more comfortable in your own bed."

Artie couldn't deny that. "All right." He moved to stand, and Jim pulled him up, wrapping an arm around his back and leading him slowly towards the hall.

Artie immediately felt dizzy, but ignored it as he basked in the return of his memory. He remembered everything…nothing was missing, and he was so relieved.

They entered his compartment, and he sighed with relief as Jim sat him on his bed, closing his eyes and wincing from the throbbing pain in his head. "I never forgot you, you know," he said to Jim, as he felt his friend start to undo the buttons on his shirt for him.

"No?" said Jim. "You didn't know who I was the first time you woke up."

"Not your name, but I knew that I knew you." Artie said and opened his eyes, reaching up to do the buttons for himself. Lowering his head and trying to focus his eyes on them immediately sent his brain into a swirl, making him gasp and close his eyes again, placing one hand on his head, and the other on his bed, to brace himself. "Ooooh, that was a mistake," he exclaimed.

Jim grabbed his arms to keep him steady. "I knew that it would be, that's why I was doing it for you."

Artie sighed, tiredly. "I acquiesce to your wisdom, James my boy."

Jim smiled, the 'James my boy' showing him for sure that he really had his friend back. He helped Artie change and pulled the covers up over him after he'd laid down.

Artie rubbed his forehead, glad that the train wasn't in motion.

"Get some sleep, Artie," Jim said. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Artie nodded and closed his eyes. "Okay."

Jim stood and headed for the door. "If you're well enough tomorrow, we'll go back to the restaurant for dinner."

"Good," Artie said. "Because there's something that we need to discuss while we eat."

"What's that?" Jim asked.

"Which street we want to live on when we retire," Artie said. "I spotted a house for sale right next to a home where two beautiful sisters live…"

Jim's laughter could still be heard even after he went into his own compartment.

THE END

* 'The Night of the Steel Assassin', season 1

For everyone wondering if this is the one where Artie didn't get shot...nope. In my opinion, a bullet causing a wound means 'shot'. LOL