The knife had an unusual scimitar-like shape to it, with gold inlay, more like a valuable collectible than something you'd want to press against someone's throat. "You know what I'm holding to your neck, bucket head?

I stammered no.

"This here is a Crysknife! Made from a genuine giant assed Arrakeen sandworm tooth! Legend has it that you can't resheathe this thing without whetting it with some kind of human blood. The question is, am I going to be putting a dab on it, or a whole f-ing lot?"

"Wait," I gasped. "Sandworm? Crysknife? Is this some kind of joke?"

"Does it feel like a joke to you, asshole?"

The guy was clearly insane. I sweated as I stared at the tattoos on the dark muscular arms that pinned me down. "What do you want?"

The guy smelled like he'd driven to the job after working out all day at the gym. I wrinkled my nose.

"Just the usual crap. Insurance information, an agreement to pay for the damages done to my car. That kind of thing. I wouldn't recommend any sudden moves. I'd hate to get blood all over my hood." He pulled me to my feet, shoving me against the windshield.

With one hand pressing the blade against the soft part of my neck, he reached up with his free hand, reading my note. "`Mark Sully.'" He chuckled.

Feeling my assailant's grip relaxing, I tried to wiggle free, but the stranger noticed. "Dammit! Didn't you hear a single word I said? Or do you have some kind of death wish?"

"Look, I gasped. "I'll pay for the damages. I wanted to do that anyway. Please. Please put that knife away."

Now he was breathing down my neck. "What, no insurance?"

"I got some. I just don't want the premium to go up."

I felt the Crysknife pressing close to my skin. "Tell you what. You're going to pay my repair bill. Your crappy little car broke my front headlight and damaged the bumper, and I want it fixed. Got it?"

I would have nodded, but I didn't want to slice my own throat. "Yes. How much do you want?"

The brown hand relaxed a little, slightly lowering the knife. "Have to get back to you on that. Is that phone number and other shit correct on this little note?"

I didn't want to "bleed a whole f-ing lot", as he said, so I blurted, "Yes, sir."

"All right, then. I guess I'll have to tell you tomorrow."

The knife dropped away from view.

I stared at the stranger, finally getting a good look at him.

The guy's face reminded me of skinny killer aliens I've seen in science fiction movies, except he was completely terrestrial. Sunken cheeks, fierce looking dark circled skeleton eyes, square jaw, slight jowl that made him look like a dangerous dog.

No hair. He was going for the bald look. The bags beneath his eyes hinted at some kind of late night stress. Kids, perhaps?

His loose hanging sleeveless sports jersey revealed a musculature like that of a basketball player. Lean, wiry arms that could just as easily kill instead of shoot free throws.

"Shit," the man laughed. "I almost forgot."

I yelped in pain as I felt something sharp slicing into my neck.

"Damn, dawg! I forgot! There's still some Sapmux blood on that! Fuuuh, I'm sorry!"

"What!" I practically screamed at him. "What did you do?"

"I can't legally tell you what it is, but you might want to get a doctor to check that out. My bad. Sorry, player."

I frowned. "I think we crossed that `legal' line when you pulled a knife on me."

His eyes narrowed. "Now who did the hit and run, exactly? Don't make me pull my knife out again."

I swallowed. "That's fine. Whatever. Are we done? I think my neck's bleeding."

Snakey laughed. "Yeah. We done. I'll call you tomorrow or something."

Shaking my head, I hurried to the restroom of my office to treat the wound.

After soaking some paper towels and cleaning it out, I examined the cut in the mirror.

It seemed to only be a surface cut, a hair thin incision that didn't appear to touch anything vital, yet it bled profusely. I held another paper towel to it, wondering if and when the bleeding would stop.

What the hell is a Sapmux anyway? I wondered.

I grabbed a wad of paper towels, heading for the exit.

I noticed a figure in a Hawaiian shirt and khakis sipping a steaming beverage as he stared out the giant glass windows. "You should probably see a doctor about that. Those cuts can get pretty nasty."

That was Harold. I felt a little resentful about him knowing about my injury and doing nothing to prevent it, but said nothing about it. "Thanks."

"I was at a bar one time," the old guy said. "And this guy picked a fight with me. I got him pretty good, but he cut me across the neck with a beer bottle. I was out in the hospital for a time. Believe me when I say you need to get that stuff checked out."

"Will do."

I got in my car.

I managed to drive with only slight difficulty, one hand on the wheel for a few miles as I changed paper towels and checked to see if the towel was clean of blood. About ten minutes later, the bleeding seemed to stop, and I had uninterrupted use of both hands.

As I pulled in to my driveway, the guy was doing a jumpkick to an invisible opponent, followed by a sweeping backstep and a chop to two more imaginary assailants. Some might find a twenty minute solo Kung Fu performance fascinating, but I did not. I marched around his whirling body to the door.

Stepdad stopped what he was doing. "Hey. You got something on your neck!"

I rolled my eyes. Always the smartass wisecracks. "Got it from work."

He examined it, frowning a little. "You'd better let your mother take a look at that."

I entered the house.

My mother, who had been trimming the struggling dog's nails on the couch to him, let out a sharp hiss when she saw me. Sucking in her breath, she set down the clippers and poked the area around my neck. "That looks like a knife wound! What really happened?"

"I fell down the stairs at work. There was something sharp lying on one of the steps."

I could tell by her facial expression that she didn't buy it. "You should go to the hospital."

"No, it'll be fine. It's just a surface cut."

"It was the owner of that car you hit, wasn't it?"

I just gave her a pained glance. I really didn't want to go down this road with her.

"You should press charges against him. Call the police."

I shook my head. "Technically, I did a hit and run. I don't have much ground to stand on."

"But he cut you! That's not legal!"

"So is a hit and run. I don't want to report him because then he'll report on me. I don't want to get arrested."

"Oh you're so silly. You won't get arrested!"

"Okay. Fined, then."

"You've got to report him!"

"Look. I don't even remember his name, okay? His license plate said Snake. That's all I know. He says we're going to talk again at work tomorrow."

Mom sighed and shook her head. "We put you in those karate classes for a reason."

"I know..."

Sighing, I searched the bathroom for bandages. When I couldn't find the right kind, I called mom up to help, but she only brought me gauze and a maxi pad.

"I'm not wearing that," I protested.

"What. It absorbs blood."

I frowned at her.

"You don't have to wear it outside."

I groaned in frustration. "I'm not doing that. Is there something else I can use instead?"

Rolling her eyes, she brought me some paper towels and tape.

Sighing, I dressed the wound with the items.

"Who did it?" Stepdad asked as he watched me.

I shrugged. "You wouldn't know them, Texas Ranger."

"You let some punk at the job slice you up?"

I didn't answer, because I didn't like how he punished this kind of weakness.

"It was the boss, wasn't it? That's why you didn't fight back! I knew it!"

I sighed, told him about Snakey.

"And you didn't notice the guy sneaking up on you? That's it. We're going to do some awareness exercises...Why didn't you fight back?"

"I, uh, I'm the one who did the hit and run. Plus, you know, I...believe in turning the other cheek when someone attacks me. Unlike you, I'm a Christian."

He gave me this look that said `Now really.' "I don't care what you believe. Three's no excuse for being a doormat. Especially when you..." he gave me a wry smirk. "May or may not be the `sinner' in the wrong. Speaking of which, where was Tarzan, your alter ego, while all this was happening?"

"I don't know. Did I mention how the employee handbook forbids fighting on company premises?"

"He cut you on company premises." He scowled at me for a moment. "Let's a have a little workout in the garage."

Stepdad kept a couple barrels of sand in the garage, you know, so he can do that hand strengthening exercise they always do in Kung Fu movies.

For the next hour, I punched sand and practiced karate while he circled me, randomly making attacks with a rubber knife to test my skills. I guess I should be thankful to have a family member willing to teach me karate for free, but the guy was kind of annoying, and I didn't like martial arts that much. I mostly humored him because of mom. They both thought the Zen meditation of karate could help me control the sleepwalking thing - I think they just watched too many reruns of The Incredible Hulk.

And no, despite all the calisthenics, I do not look like the Hulk. I only do this kind of thing as a punishment.

I really wished I could move out, but the sleepwalking...

Once satisfied that my hands were sore and I was jumpy as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, he let me come upstairs to supper.

Mac and cheese with green beans. Yum.

Stepdad's `business' wasn't exactly booming. Just like dance, yoga or massage, it's an expensive luxury, and he wasn't the guy running the school, so mom was the real breadwinner of the house. In between Stepdad's lack of financial discipline and my medical bills, dinner was a good reflection of our financial situation.

"`Turn the other cheek!'" Stepdad mocked. "I think the cheeks of your ass need a few good kicks!"

"And he attacks a nurse, who's only trying to help him!" Mother chimed in. "Why can't he fight this...guy at work like that?"

"He's such a religious zealot that he lets everyone walk all over him. All those karate lessons and he doesn't even use them."

Why did I let myself get attacked? Because I was daydreaming at the time, and didn't expect someone to attack me from behind. That's why.

"We should sign him up for classes again."

I used to go to karate, but I had stopped attending, or practicing. I really didn't want to be forced back into it by this ugly incident. It was bad enough when this kind of thing happened in high school.

"I don't have time for that!" I cried. "I already see enough of him every time I come home from work!"

Now Stepdad's hackles were raised. "And what the hell did you mean by that?"

I crossed my arms indignantly. "If you wanted to borrow money from me, you could've just asked. I don't need to sign some stupid contract with your school."

He sighed through his nostrils. "Emma, explain to me again why we can't just boot him out of the house?"

Mom cast me a scolding look. "He's only trying to help."

"Thanks, but I'm good. Unlike Jeff, I really don't enjoy doing karate dances every day and night."

Stepdad frowned. "What else do you really got planned? You're just sitting up in that room making a bunch of scribbles."

My art. That I spent hours working on. To him they were just "scribbles."

I shook my head in frustration, thinking about how I'd have to reduce my life to nothing but work, karate and sleep. I shuddered as I remembered spending hours in the cramped garage practicing elaborate dances that seemed to do nothing to do with self defense. "It'll be fine!"

"Yes! You'll be fine once we sign you back up for classes!"

"Dammit, no! Listen!" I yelled. Then, not wanting to offend my stepdad by raising my voice again, I blurted, "The guy will leave me alone once I pay him the damage."

"`Turn the other cheek'," Stepdad spat.

"Mark..." Mom had a now pleading expression on her face. She looked on the verge of tears. "Let Jeff help you. Please. If you won't go to the dojo, at least let him train you a little. You're the only son I've got."

"Fine," I muttered.

We ate in silence for awhile.

At last mom spoke, telling us a story about a nightmare of a customer at the health clinic check in desk, and a diabetic patient who fell on the floor and needed five people to get her into a wheelchair.

After this they switched on the TV.

NCIS. Finished eating, I sat down in a recliner, continuing to watch the program with them.

Imagine my surprise when, after pulling out the footrest, I uncovered a homemade bow and a quiver of arrows.

I quickly shoved them deeper into the chair and folded the footrest down.

I pretended I hadn't seen it, thinking I would go a day without a mentioning of my weird sleepwalking habits, but then, the moment I heard the dishwasher coming to life, I saw stepdad holding up a crude wreath made from wire, sweetgum balls, and some kind of animal bones. "Is this one of your art projects, or were you sleepwalking again?"

Not wanting to go the head shrinker again, I lied and said it was an art project.

"Why was this in the dishwasher?"

I swallowed. "I...wanted it to be really clean."

Stepdad frowned at me, but he seemed to believe it. After all, one time I left a Target poster out in the rain and dirt and laminated it.

"If you break the dishwasher, you're buying us a new one."

I looked in my medicine cabinet, but didn't find any bandages, so I checked the one in mom's bathroom.

Noticing my predicament, mom handed me the bandages she had, small finger bandages not designed for a horizontal neck wound, but I decided to put three of them on anyways, to keep the wound closed.

I trained with Stepdad in the garage until bedtime.

That night after dinner I dreamed I was in the arms of that naked fat creature who sexually assaulted me in the previous dream. It took a lot of effort to wiggle out of her arms, but I eventually did.

At first, we lay intertwined in each other's arms, on fuzzy skins in a crude tent made of logs and animal hide.

The female let out loud animal snores, one meaty hand gripping tightly around the base of my tail, but I wrested it free of her grasp, sneaking out of the tipi.

Noting my manner of undress, I picked up a discarded breechcloth, cinching it around my waist.

All around me stood tipis illuminated by an immense bonfire in the middle of the encampment.

From my experience in past dreams, I knew better than to seek out contact with other...blue things. I'd be better off on my own, alone somewhere.

I crept into a jungle, staring at the strange looking flora.

I nearly tripped over a small, thinner version of the creature from the tipi.

"Where are you going, Qaddafwu?"

A cute little thing, half human feline face, dreadlocked hair all up in beads. You're too young to be wearing your hair up like that, I thought weirdly.

I knew, from previous dreams, that the child had not sprung from my loins. A tribesman named Nismuzah had fallen to his death during a hunt for shovel beaks. The kid's mother had just kinda latched onto me, because I had been Nismuzah's blood brother.

As cute as her kids were, I didn't want to be forced into a relationship just because of her, my blood brother, or whatever other forces kept putting me in Big Bertha's arms. This was a dream, after all.

Sure, there may have been a video of a blue thing saying it was Mark, in a place that kinda looked like this one, but then again, I'd seen a man in a black suit, and my car turning into an animal, so I chalked it all up as a dream or hallucination generated by a sleep deprived mind.

I put a finger to my lips. "Shh! I'm hunting a wabbit!"

The girl frowned at me. "What's a wabbit?"

I waved her away. "Be quiet. You'll scare it away!...I'll...show you one...when I get back."

I crept away from her, deeper into the jungle.

I'd had many dreams about this place, but it was always kind of trippy seeing glowing sea plants dancing around on dry land, or anemone that retreated when you walked past.

I waded through thick four and five foot tall clusters of weeds and brush, gazing up at something that resembled Jupiter in the night sky.

My bare feet stumbled over rocks and gravel. I winced, stopped to check the damage.

When I looked up, I saw an unclothed female figure strolling down the beach. I watched, open mouthed, as her shapely blue body, speckled with glowing dots, slowly waded into the water, feline tail making playful ripples in the surf. The spray clung to her hips, tracing glistening fingers around every curve.

When I leaned in to get a better look, my bare foot landed on something pointy and sharp, a jagged little anemone thing. I cried out in pain as its razor sharp yucca leaves stabbed me knife edged through the base of my foot and came out the other side.

I cursed, sat down on the gravel.

The female let out a cry of alarm. I thought for sure she would think me a creep, scream and tell someone, but when she noticed my pitiful state, she covered her mouth to hide a laugh. "Serves you right for spying on me."

"I...I..." I stammered.

She sucked in her breath when she saw my injury up close. "You stepped right on a losmeshi. Didn't your shaman teach you about such things?"

She clicked her teeth. "Come back to my tipi. I'll treat you with some cegfalla root before the poison sets in."

I swallowed. "Your...tipi?"

She rolled her yellow eyes, putting her hands on those hips I kept admiring. The look on her face said, `Don't get any ideas.' "Are you really this stupid, or is this all an act?"

I glanced down at my feet. When I tried to pull out the plant fronds, it hurt so bad that I started crying. "I...think I'm really that stupid."

She smiled. It seemed she had warmed to me.

When she yanked parts of the thing out of my foot, I cried more. This made her grin openly now, and she sang me a beautiful little song that took my mind off the pain, even when she pulled the leaves completely out.

I didn't ask her name because this was just a dream. "That's pretty. What's it called?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, it's just the ritual song of Nuqtegza. It's sung by shamans and priestesses all over the planet. I'm surprised you don't recognize it."

I felt a little nervous about telling her the truth. You know, because it probably sounds crazy to an alien. "I...um, come from a...distant tribe."

"I believe you. You look like a Na'vi, but you have a very strange accent."

I thought she seemed a little impressed, but I still wasn't sure what she thought of me.

She led me to the water, washed out the injured area. "What do your people sing?"

With a smirk, I muttered, "Um...a lop bop a beebop a wop bam boom, tutti fruitti."

She giggled. "Is that how you sing?"

I reddened. "Okay, fine."

Clearing my throat, I actually sang.

I know lots of songs, but I know all the words to the dumbest, least romantic ones. That's why I serenaded her with Eat It by Weird Al Yankovic, instead of the actual Michael Jackson song.

"Do the words to your song have a special significance?"

I laughed. "It's a song about children who don't eat their mother's cooking."

The humorous intent got lost in translation. "Will you sing this song to your children when...you have them?"

People make Freudian slips all the time, but that doesn't always mean they like you...or that you should blow it by being too forward. "Uh, maybe?"

"I think you should."

My mouth suddenly felt dry. I had no words.

Since my wound had been all cleaned up by now, she tugged my hand. "C'mon. You need medicine."

I glanced at the beach, where her (presumably) buckskin clothing lay. "Shouldn't you...uh...get dressed?"

"I thought you wanted me to treat your wounds. You're going to have a problem if you don't get medicine right away."

No disagreement there! I thought. "...Thank you. I realize this is...awkward for you."

"Not really."

The female was an artist, too. She had a very pretty...pterodactyl design painted on her tent skins. The artistry impressed me enough to take my mind off my bleeding foot.

I complimented her, but she said it was nothing, so I complimented her some more.

She took me in the place. Spartan as usual, just some fuzzy skins and a trunk, from which she produced a bunch of herbs and strips of textiles to treat my foot with.

"I never got your name, stranger," she said, leaning close to me.

If I told her my alien alter ego's name, she would have connected me with...that other tribe, and the fat chick, so I told her my real one.

"`Mark.' That's very unusual."

"Not where I come from. So..."

I, um, had a good look at her while she poured the ointment and everything. "You're very pretty," I stammered.

She chuckled, tied a strip of cloth around my wound.

"I can tell you like what you see."

I blushed. "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have been spying."

She giggled through her nose. "It's okay. You've been punished."

I looked into her eyes. "Hey,um...are you single?"

She gave me a dumb look. "No. I am with my tribe."

"No, I mean, do you have a boyfriend?"

"No. You?"

I reddened. "I..."

Honestly, other than in my dreams, I...had never been with anyone, so... "No."

I felt warmth rushing to my face. "So, um...I know, we uh, should probably hang out or something for awhile-"

She rolled me onto the pile of skins, kissing me passionately as she rubbed her body against me.

A moment later, a plump little female face poked in between the tent flaps, beaded braids clacking noisily. "Daddy, is she a wabbit?"