'I said, get out!' Tom shouted, as Hugh walked up beside him.
'I'm…I'm having a problem here…'
Tom stomped over to the trunk, reached inside, grabbed Stanley by the collar, and pulled him forward. 'Your buddy just cost you, big time,' he said.
Working together, Tom and Hugh dragged Stanley out of the trunk. He fell onto the ground, feeling his ass cheek flatten underneath him more than it should have. They were behind a warehouse, or at least something that looked like it might be a warehouse from behind.
Donald lay on the ground in a pool of blood, unquestionably dead.
'It wasn't my fault,' Stanley insisted. 'You can still get the rest of your money!'
'So you can screw us over again? I don't think so!'
'I wasn't involved in the screwing!'
'We're just gonna sell you off in parts,' said Tom. 'Probably worth big bucks that way. Should've kept the other arm.'
'C'mon, let's be reasonable!'
'Let's not.' Tom pointed the gun at Stanley.
Stanley instinctively threw his arm in front of his face to protect himself. His arm stretched out to about twice its length, smacking Tom in the face.
Tom, Hugh, and Stanley all gaped in surprise.
'What the hell was that?' Tom demanded.
Stanley threw another extended punch, this one striking Tom in the nose. It wasn't a particularly hard blow, but the second hit surprised Tom just as much as the first, and he stumbled backwards.
Stanley pulled on his right leg. It stretched like it was made of elastic and popped free of the rope.
Tom fired the gun. The bullet struck Stanley in the chest. Though he'd rather not have been shot, the pain was a welcome distraction from the itching and burning.
He threw another stretchy punch at Hugh, missing by a few inches. Hugh grabbed his hand in a panic and tugged, pulling Stanley to his extremely wobbly feet.
'He's fuckin' Plastic Man!' Hugh shouted.
Stanley got him with a stretchy kick to the groin. Hugh howled and doubled over in pain.
Stanley wanted to say something intimidating, but his jaw wasn't working right. It kind of felt like it was hanging free.
Tom shot him again.
Stanley threw a punch his way. Again, this one didn't hit with much force, but what it lacked in power it made up for with the fact that Stanley's extended index finger got Tom right in the eye and sunk deep.
Tom let out a wail that more than matched Hugh's howl.
Stanley tried to pull his finger free, but it was stuck. His legs gave way beneath him and he dropped to the ground, one of them sticking up at a strange angle.
Hugh turned and ran.
Tom fell to his knees, bellowing.
Stanley felt something slimy trickling down his cheek and realized that Tom wasn't the only one with eyeball issues. Stanley was staring at Tom with his good eye and at the ground with the eye that was slipping out of its socket. He passed out pretty quickly after that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Stanley awoke to find himself staring into the eyes of heaven.
Well, Veronica, anyway. Close enough.
He was back in his old bed in the bunker, underneath the fluffy pink blanket. Veronica and Martin were each seated on opposite sides of the bed. Brant stood against the far wall, speaking to Dr. Arnzin.
'Stanley, can you hear me?' asked Veronica.
'Yeah.' Stanley wiggled his feet. They seemed to be more or less normal. He touched his forehead and found only a small dent there, like a dimple on a golf ball.
His left arm was still gone.
'Donald, is he…?' Stanley trailed off, already knowing the answer.
Veronica nodded sadly. 'The funeral was yesterday.'
'Shit.'
'It's the way he would have wanted to go, I think: Top news story.'
Stanley closed his eyes. 'It's all my fault.'
'It's not your fault. He was stupid. At least that's what the kidnappers said.'
'Did they catch them?'
'Yeah.'
'Can we cut off their arms?'
'No, probably not.'
Stanley opened his eyes. 'I'm so sorry about all this. I just went nutzo, I guess.'
'Why?' Veronica asked. 'I don't understand what made you do that.'
Stanley looked over at Brant, who was eyeing him intently. He returned his attention to Veronica. 'I don't know, either. Probably stress.'
'You need to get some more rest,' said Veronica. 'They've fixed you up pretty well, but you're still not one hundred percent.'
'We did get the bullets out of you, though,' said Dr. Arnzin, approaching the bed. 'You're a much better patient when you're unconscious.'
'The one in my brain, too?'
'Yes.'
'Good.' Stanley sighed. 'I don't suppose there's anything you can do about my arm, huh?'
Dr. Arnzin frowned. 'No. I'm sorry. I could sew it back on, of course, but it would just flop around.'
'You can't do a ritual or something?'
'Excuse me?'
'Nothing. I guess I deserve this.'
'We'll fit you for an artificial arm. They're actually better than the real thing.' Dr. Arnzin patted Stanley's remaining arm. 'I envy you this opportunity.'
'Whatever.' Stanley looked over at Martin. 'I'm sorry. You were right. You forgive me, don't you?'
'For being a complete reckless idiot and getting an innocent man killed?'
'Uh, yeah. That.'
Martin shook his head. 'Not yet. Ask me later.'
'All right, everyone, Stanley needs his rest,' said Brant. 'Please excuse us so I can have a few words with him.'
'No,' said Stanley.
'I beg your pardon?'
'No. I'm not going to be alone with you.'
'Is that so?'
'Yeah.'
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Brant shrugged. 'As you wish. Anyway, we're glad to see that you're more or less back to normal. It took a lot of special injections. I hope you appreciate it. Maybe next time you'll behave yourself, hmm?'
Stanley had every intention of behaving himself, but didn't want to give Brant the satisfaction of knowing this, so he didn't respond.
Brant left the room with Dr. Arnzin.
'What kind of special injections?' asked Stanley.
