MONARCH

I must have nodded out on the trip home, because all of a sudden 21 was leaning over me again through the open gull-wing door, gently shaking me by the shoulder. As soon as I opened my eyes, everything started spinning again, and I leaned out to vomit onto the floor of the Morpho Cave.

"Ahh, dude," 21 grumbled, stepping back to save his shoes from the mess, "I just Mop-And-Glowed the floor."

But all the same, he reached down and took my arm across his shoulders and helped me out of the car. I felt like shit again. My fever was back, though not nearly as high this time, thank God. 21 supported me as we made our way toward the stairs at the far end of the vast Morpho Cave.

"Hang on a second," he said suddenly, easing me down to sit at the foot of the stairs. He reached toward my face and I instinctively drew back. But all he did was slip off my mask. I'd forgotten I was wearing it.

He crossed to the costume pods, and I watched him as he stripped out of his Kano costume and hung it neatly in the pod. When he was back in his shorts and t-shirt, I saw him take something from my pod and cross back to my side.

"I got your robe," he said, holding it up.

I looked down and realized the robe I was swaddled in was not my own. I fingered it. Nice. Plush.

"Whose is this?" I asked, running my fingers over the softness.

"Belongs to Dr. Whalen's friend, White," 21 replied, "We couldn't put you back in your suit, it was infectious. And White's the only one in that gang who is even close to your size."

I nodded, and reached out for my own robe, but 21 tossed it over his shoulder and pointed toward the top of the stairs.

"You're still funky, dude," he said, grinning a little, "Let's get you scrubbed down, first."

I rubbed the back of my neck, still feeling the burn of that foul, fetid water that had almost killed me. And I did definitely still exude the exotic aroma of Eau De Gowanus. But I was alive.

Final Score, Monarch: one..., Dead Dolphin Juice: zilch.

21 helped me to my feet again, and we started up the stairs to Chez Monarch. Halfway up, I started a mental mantra, like The Little Engine That Could. (I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.)

Three quarters of the way up, it had changed to, (oh fuck my life, oh fuck my life, oh fuck my life.)

Maybe we could get an elevator installed...

But I made it, and soon we were sidling through the swinging bookcase that concealed our secret lair. Now I was huffing and puffing like The Little Engine That Was About To Fucking Die. I was sweating again, and my head was pounding.

"You OK?" 21 asked as he lowered me into a chair. He knelt in front of me and cupped my face in his big paw of a hand, looking at my eyes, I guess, "Here, you need another shot."

"Bangup idea," I replied slumping back in the chair, breathing hard. I gestured toward the small bar in the corner of the study. "Jim Beam, neat." My oh-so-respectful henchman guffawed.

"Sorry, dude," he chuckled, producing a vial and syringe from his pocket, "I meant another shot of hardcore antibiotics, courtesy of the good doctor, Billy Quizboy Whalen."

"Billy Fanboy Whalen," I corrected wryly, watching 21 roll up my sleeve and fill the syringe. He laughed.

"Oh, you noticed that, too?" He said with a grin as he tapped the syringe to clear the air bubbles out, "Yeah, you're definitely Billy's hero. I thought he was gonna wet himself when you shook his hand."

I gave a low chuckle, and then winced as the needle pierced my skin. It was probably psychosomatic, but I swear I felt better the moment 21 gave me the shot. Yay, modern medicine.

"Good to go?" he asked, tucking the capped syringe and vial back into his shorts and holding out his hand to me.

I took it, and he pulled me out of the chair and took my arm across his shoulders again. We made our way out of the study and into the vestibule. At the foot of the stairs, I stopped and just groaned, hanging my head.

"Waaaay too many stairs in this house," I whined, exhausted. But I gamely started up, leaning heavily on 21 the whole time.

By the time we reached the first landing, my legs were Jell-O. My loyal henchman tried to steady me for a few moments, and then he huffed impatiently.

"Aw, to hell with this," he muttered, "Can you hold on to me?"

In my brain-fuzz, I grabbed a handful of the front of his T-shirt, earning a short chuff of laughter.

"No, around my neck," he clarified.

Oh, right, right... I moved my hand to his throat.

"Oh for...! PUT YOUR ARMS AROUND MY NECK!"

Ahhhh. Duh.

I looped my arms around 21's neck. He slid his left arm around my waist, bent down, hooked his other arm behind my knees and picked me up.

I had a feeling of Deja Vu, and realized it was the second time tonight he'd had to carry me.

"Thanks," I said sheepishly as 21 started up the stairs with me, "Sorry about all this."

He just chuckled again.

"Pretty sure this is in my job description, somewhere," he said, kindly, "Just don't puke on me."

"Can't make any promises," I said.

He reached the next landing, and paused to heft me a little higher against his chest, and then took a deep breath as he started up the last flight.

"You know," 21 huffed, slowing as he reached the top, "For a skinny guy... you weigh... a friggin' TON."

He reached the top and carefully set me on my feet, keeping one steadying hand on the small of my back.

"Yeah, well," I replied, holding up my arms and flexing my biceps, "What there is of me is pure, lean, ass-kicking MUSCLE." I grinned as he busted out laughing at me.

"Sure, sure," 21 teased, "That's why you used Puffy Paint to draw abs on your bodysuit, right?"

"Oh, shut up," I muttered, amused by his good-natured ribbing as he took my arm and led me down the hall toward the bedrooms.

"Hey, don't take my word for it," I continued, "Just ask my w... OH, HOLY FUCK!"

My eyes went wide and I clapped both hands to my face like the Home Alone kid as I remembered the circumstances under which I had left my Pookums.

"Oh shit!" 21 added, as if reading my mind.

I lurched unevenly down the hall to the master bedroom with 21 hot on my heels, and held my breath as I stepped through the doorway. But instead of coming face-to-face with an enraged woman dressed like a farm tart, I was greeted by snoring.

"She's still out?" 21 asked, moving carefully past me and going to the bedside. He leaned over and stared at my wife's magnificent ass, bedecked in her Daisy Duke jean shorts.

"Umm," I began, uncertainly, putting my hands on my hips. But then I realized he was just looking at the Morpho dart still sticking in her buttock.

"It's empty," he whispered, pointing at the dart, "She's just asleep, now, not unconscious." He came back to my side, and pointed out the door.

"You should probably shower in my bathroom," he continued, guiding me out the door and down the hall, "So you don't wake her."

21 was a better henchman than I deserved, sometimes.