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The Night of the Impossible Quandary
A Wild Wild West story
By Deana
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Artie blinked, staring in shock at the giant figure of Voltaire looming over him. Confused, Artie wondered how he and Jim had come to be in Dr. Loveless' latest hideout, and why he didn't remember arriving.
"Surprise!" Voltaire exclaimed. Knowing that West was the more dangerous fighter of the two agents, Voltaire punched him in the face before they had a chance to react.
Artie reached for his gun, but it wasn't there. Before he could do anything else, Voltaire roughly grabbed his left wrist and flung him into the wall. Blackness instantly engulfed him, and he never felt himself hit the floor.
Voltaire laughed at the sight of the two unconscious agents, and he grabbed each of them by their jackets and dragged them out of the room.
Jim was the one who woke first, lifting his head with a wince. Opening his eyes, he found that his wrists were securely tied behind himself to the chair that he was sitting on, and that Artie was likewise tied up beside him. Artie was still unconscious, his head hanging forward, and Jim could see a bruise on his forehead. Concern gripped him and he wondered what Artie had been hit with, as Voltaire could kill with one blow. He was relieved to see that his friend was breathing steadily.
"Artie," he said, twisting his hands to try to unloosen the knots. "Artie, wake up, we gotta get out of here." He got no response, and continued to try getting free. After five minutes without an ounce of success, Jim took a break and tried to wake his friend again, hoping that his ropes weren't tied as tightly. "Artie," he said. "Wake up. Artie!"
He suddenly heard Artie groan, and watched as his friend shifted in his chair, with a wince on his face. "You all right?"
Artie gasped and squirmed, his eyes popping open. "No!" he exclaimed.
Jim frowned, alarmed. "What is it?"
"Voltaire broke my wrist! Get these ropes off me, Jim!" Artie answered, desperate.
Jim's eyes widened and he craned his neck to look behind Artie, seeing that the ropes around his wrists were tied just as tightly as his own.
Artie gasped again and continued to squirm.
Jim couldn't imagine the pain that his friend was in. "Loveless!" he shouted. "Loveless!"
In less than a minute, the door suddenly opened, and both of their enemies strolled in. "Well well well, how the mighty have fallen, Mr. West," Loveless said, with a grin. He looked at Artie, who was fighting to get loose. "Mr. Gordon, do calm yourself."
"Now's not the time for our usual word games, Loveless," Jim said. "Untie Artie; Voltaire broke his wrist!"
Loveless started to laugh. "Oh, Mr. West, that is the oldest trick in the book!"
"I'm serious," West said, sternly. "Look at him!"
Loveless chuckled for a few more seconds, until he noticed the sweat on Artie's face and his ragged breathing. He could tell that the expression of pain was not an act. "Voltaire," he said. "Put your hand around West's neck. If Gordon tries anything, snap it."
Voltaire obeyed, wrapping his huge hand around Jim's neck from behind.
Loveless walked behind Artie and worked at the knots, succeeding after a minute. He kept Artie's right wrist tied to the back of the chair, but let him pull his left arm forward.
Loveless walked back around to in front of his prisoner and took Artie's arm, the doctor in him trained to heal. "Well," he said. "It seems, Mr. Gordon, that in my quest to kill you, I accidentally injured you. How ironic!"
"Let go," Artie said.
Loveless frowned. "Do you not wish for me to set this for you?"
Artie squeezed his eyes shut against a flare of pain. "I meant Voltaire…"
"Oh!" said Loveless. "Yes, Voltaire, by all means, let Mr. West go."
Voltaire let go of Jim's neck and stepped back.
Loveless studied Artie's wrist, which had swelled. "This is a nasty break, Mr. Gordon. That should teach you not to tangle with Voltaire." With that, he gave a sudden twist.
Artie's entire body jerked in the chair, and he was unable to suppress a cry of pain.
"Voltaire," said Loveless. "Go find me something to use as a splint, and bring me the black bag on the table in my lab."
Voltaire nodded and left.
Jim watched, horrified, wondering how Artie felt letting Dr. Loveless, of all people, treat his injury.
Artie slumped in his chair, eyes closed tightly. His head was throbbing from hitting the wall, his wrist was in agony, and he couldn't believe that he was letting Dr. Loveless—their worst enemy—hold his broken wrist.
Voltaire came back a minute later with the bag and two small pieces of wood.
"Ah," said Loveless. "That should work, for now." He took one of the pieces of wood and placed it under Artie's wrist. "Hold this, Voltaire."
Voltaire placed his huge hand under the piece of wood, and Loveless put the other piece on top of Artie's hand before letting go, taking the bag and plopping it on Jim's lap before opening it and digging inside.
Jim didn't even care, unable to look away from the sight of Voltaire supporting the makeshift split that held Artie's broken wrist. He looked at Artie's pale face, to see him breathing heavily from the pain and looking nervous…understandable when Voltaire was concerned.
Loveless chuckled. "You look as if you're expecting us to take advantage of your friend's injury, and do him further harm. We're not all bad, Mr. West." With that, he took a roll of bandage out of his bag and started wrapping it around Artie's hand and wrist, ensuring that the pieces of wood stayed in place. After he finished, he gently took Artie's arm out of Voltaire's hand and laid it on the arm of the chair, before reaching into his bag and taking out a bottle of clear liquid and a syringe, quickly filling it.
"What's that?" Jim asked, instantly suspicious.
Loveless chuckled at his display of mistrust. "A harmless painkiller, Mr. West. Or do you really wish your friend to needlessly suffer the agonizing pain of a broken bone?" Before either of them could say anything more, he plunged the needle into Artie's arm.
Artie gasped, taken by surprise. Before he had a chance to pull away, Loveless yanked the needle out, put the cap back on, and dropped it into his bag. "There, was that so bad, Mr. Gordon? In a short while, you should start to feel better." Cruelly, he patted the splint.
Artie gasped again.
"Whoops," said Loveless. With that, he turned and left the room, with Voltaire following.
Artie painfully lifted his wrist off the arm of the chair and laid it on his lap, a wince seemingly permanent on his face.
"Are you all right?" Jim asked.
Artie gave a sarcastic laugh. "Oh sure, Loveless is such a wonderful doctor." His voice was strained, showing the amount of pain he was in.
"Do you think that was really a painkiller he gave you?" Jim asked.
"I don't know," Artie answered. In actuality, he doubted it.
Jim looked behind Artie's chair again. "Can you get your other hand free?"
Artie squirmed, and shook his head.
"Keep trying," Jim said, doing the same.
Neither of them had any luck, and Artie eventually stopped, with a groan.
"The pain's no better?" Jim asked.
"Not yet," Artie said. Suddenly, he started blinking, with a shocked look on his face. "Jim!" he exclaimed. "I can't see!"
"You what?!"
Artie kept blinking. "I can't see color! Everything is black and white!"
"Loveless!" Jim shouted, again.
The door opened immediately, as if their enemy had been just about to come in. "Yes, Mr. West?"
"Artie's gone colorblind," he said. "What did Voltaire hit him on the head with?"
"Colorblind? My my my," Loveless said, making a show of studying the bruise on Artie's forehead. "Voltaire didn't hit him with anything, Mr. West. Rather, he hit the wall with Mr. Gordon!"
Artie was staring at Loveless, in shock. He looked at Jim, and around the room before looking at Loveless again. "How did you do it?" he asked. Suddenly he closed his eyes, before reopening them and shaking his head. "This is impossible!"
"What is it?" Jim asked.
Artie looked at him. "Jim, everything is in black and white except for him!"
Jim frowned. "Everything except for Loveless? But that's—"
"Impossible!" Artie repeated.
Loveless giggled. "You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? No, Mr. Gordon, even though the slightly mismatched size of your pupils does indicate a slight concussion, your sudden colorblindness is not from the head injury...it's a new serum I developed that I injected into you a short time ago! You are my first guinea pig!"
"But you're in color!" Artie exclaimed. "There's no possible way to make me see everything in black and white except for you!"
"And yet, what do you see before you, Mr. Gordon?" Loveless spread his hands out. "Everything in black and white except for me!" He started giggling again.
"But that defies the laws of...of...of everything!"
"Indeed it does," said Loveless. "You seem to be facing quite the impossible quandary. And now, it's time for you to leave."
"You're letting us go?" said Jim, shocked.
Loveless nodded. "The colorblindness is also highly contagious! Mr. Gordon will spread it throughout the country, and, desperate, the affected people will flock to me—the one thing that they can see in color—and I will rule them all!"
"We always knew that you were criminally insane," said Jim. "But we didn't realize that you were mentally insane, too."
"Contagious?" Artie said, incredulous. "There's no way colorblindness can be contagious! There's no way to make a serum to make someone colorblind, either!"
"Calm yourself, Mr. Gordon," Loveless said again. "Breaking a bone causes quite a shock to the system, so you need to be quiet and still. Sit tight, and I will send Voltaire in to release you. Before you ask me, no, there is no antidote for the colorblindness...why would I want to cure my adoring followers? Oh!" he said. "I almost forgot." He pulled a piece of cloth out of his pocket, walked behind Artie, and tied it around his neck as a sling, before going back in front of him and settling his arm in it. "There. Until next time, gentlemen!" With that, he left.
Artie looked at Jim, his face easily displaying his despair. "This is impossible, Jim...impossible..."
"Take it easy," Jim said. "Maybe it really is from the head injury, and will heal. Loveless was probably just taking the opportunity to rattle us."
"So why is he letting us go?" Artie asked. "If you're right, then what was the shot he gave me? The pain is no better."
Jim had no chance to try to answer that before the door opened and Voltaire came in. Saying nothing, he untied Artie first before untying Jim and, going back to Artie; he yanked him out of the chair and held his good arm tightly. "Try anything, Mr. West, and I'll break his other wrist!" he said with a laugh.
"We'll cooperate," Jim said. "Just leave him alone, you've done enough."
Voltaire chuckled and pulled Artie along until they ended up outside.
Artie gasped when he saw the scenery. It was one thing to see furniture and things in black and white, but something entirely different to see trees and grass that way.
Black Jack and Mesa were standing outside, and Artie frowned, still not remembering arriving at this location in the first place. He looked up at his horse, realizing that mounting her would not be easy, when Voltaire suddenly grabbed him under the arms and lifted him as if he weighed nothing, plopping him onto his horse with a jolt and smacking the horse, making her bolt a few steps.
Jim ran forward and grabbed Mesa's bridle, stopping her. "Whoa, Mesa, easy, girl." He looked at Artie, who was tightly gripping the saddle horn, in obvious pain. "Artie, you all right? Artie?"
Eyes popping open, Artie gasped at the sight of Jim leaning over him, concern written in his blue eyes.
Blue eyes?
"Jim!" Artie exclaimed. "You're in color!" He tried to sit up, before realizing that he was lying in his bed on the train. Pain shot through his wrist, and he looked at it, to find it splinted and bandaged. "It really happened?" he said. "You were right, Jim."
Jim's eyebrows had shot up to his hairline in an incredulous expression that Artie hadn't often seen on his face. "I'm in color? I was right about what?"
Artie was happily looking around the room, immensely relieved to have his normal sight back, before looking at Jim again and seeing the confusion on his face. "What is it?"
"Artie, I don't know what you think happened," said Jim. "But I'll tell you what did happen: we were being shot at and a bullet grazed Mesa. She threw you and you hit your head and broke your wrist. I got you back to the train, and a doctor has already treated you. He said that you'll be fine."
Artie just stared. "Are you telling me that I dreamed that Dr. Loveless injected me with a contagious colorblind serum?"
Jim laughed. "Of course! You know that something like that is impossible!"
Artie nodded. "I said that repeatedly."
Jim shook his head, still smiling. "So how do you feel?"
"Better than I dreamed about," Artie told him. "I had the same injuries...my mind transferred the pain into my dream. Amazing."
"The doctor injected you with a painkiller," said Jim.
Artie laughed. "That's what Loveless claimed in the dream." He covered his eyes with his right hand. "Is Mesa all right?"
Jim nodded. "It was just a graze; the doctor took care of her too."
"Good." Artie yawned.
"Why don't you get some sleep," Jim said. "It's late. You'll feel better in the morning."
Artie nodded and settled deeper into the pillows. "Night, Jim."
"Night, Artie...try not to dream about Loveless again."
Artie chuckled. "I'd rather see him in a dream than in real life."
Jim frowned. "I'd rather not see him at all."
Artie chuckled again and closed his eyes, wondering when he and Jim would encounter Dr. Loveless again…and hoped that it wasn't too soon. As he drifted off to sleep, he could've sworn that he heard their nemesis laugh, and knew without doubt that they would cross paths with the evil genius again…and again…and again…
THE END