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From the Notebooks of Junk Yard Dog, the Pork Rind King:
"JYD."
The flat-accented voice cut through the drug-induced fog in my head. It didn't sound like the orderly, nor the sexy litle nurse that pissed off -hb- so much when she did my sponge-bath.
"Whu-"
"Lieutenant, you have a mission."
I felt a prick in my arm. Strength began to flow back into my limbs. Lieutenant? That was me...a long time ago, now. L.A., Canada, Scotland-things were blurry...
The voice continued.
"Bernstein's going to blow the lid off of something, ALL the way off. He'll probably get himself killed."
Bernstein...? Who-RICHARD! Richard was in trouble again! If I wasn't there-
I started to sit up. Why couldn't I see? This didn't smell like the hospital. My hands went up, and found a blindfold. Angrily I tore it off. Fat lot of good that it did me.
I was in pitch-darkness.
I was also no longer in my hospital gown, as my hands quickly assured me.
"What the fuck is going on here? Hold on, thet voice-"
A cone of light sprang up, illuminating what I expected to see.
"Hello, Old Friend."
Hairhead. The Goddamned Canuck mind-fucker. I should have been angrier, but for some reason, I wasn't. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs.
He tossed me a flask.
"Have a drink, Old Friend."
"I don't drink...anymore. What the hell do you want from me NOW?"
I dropped the flask to the floor and kicked it away, in a random direction. He stood where he was, nonchalant.
"Now, don't be like that, Junky-"
And I found myself becoming calmer. I couldn't explain it.
"What's this about Richard?"
"He and his kilt-wearing buddy are sticking their heads into something that I discovered some time ago. Something that can't stay hidden any longer. Something that will change the world. They'll die. That is, they'll die unless someone can keep them from dying."
"And that would be me. Why?"
You have motivation, Old Friend. Or does Bernstein's life mean nothing to you?"
He had me there. Richard and I owed each other our lives many times over. I couldn't let him go into a trap like that. I had to do SOMETHING.
Hairhead tossed me something else. An Ithaca Stakeout shotgun, and my old .38 Special. I caught them, and the ammo-bag of shells and speed-loaders (how did I know what they were? How long had I been unconcious, in his hands? What had he done to me?) easily.
Funny, I didn't feel the gunshot wound like I expected to. It was such a short time ago, but the pain was gone.
"Now" he said, "I have a plane, a map, and a few 'associates' who will help you get where you are going to need to be. Here is a picture of your contact, when you get there."
He handed me a snapshot of what looked like a young kid, that resembled nothing so much as a leprechaun crossed with a Keebler elf.
"The code-phrase is 'Are you my Little Buddy?'-his response will be 'I spell very well'-think that you can remember that?"
I snorted. The funny thing was, it all seemed ingrained in my mind. I don't think that I'll ever be able to forget it.
"Now, take a nap-you'll need your strength..."
And I fell asleep...
(To Be Continued)
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