The darkness surrounding Marty was cold and oppressing. Struggling to see anything through the dark of where he was and the cobwebs still in his head was almost impossible.
Gradually, slowly, he began to make out shapes and shadows from his immediate surroundings. He felt a wetness on his back that chilled him to the core and caused him to begin evaluating his phisical condition. Was he bleeding? Had the suits shot him? No, that would make no sense considering what had transpired earlier.
He groped in the darkness to figure out why he felt the wetness. He was laying on a surface that had and corrigated feel to it. Water, or some other unknown liquid trickled down the surface.
"Thank God!" Marty thought, "At least I'm not bleeding to death."
Marty tried to sit up and better appraise his situation, but rammed his head into, what appeared to be a very low ceiling. Feeling his way, he finally realized that he must be inside a drainage culvert since the corregated surface seemed to be all around him. Since the trickle of water seemed to be flowing from his head to his feet, Marty wriggled toward what must have been the outlet of the pipe. He felt some relief when his feet dangled in open space. Fearing that the drop at the outlet of the drain pipe might be more dangerous than his present safe, albeit wet condition, he gingerly moved until the edge of the pipe was against the back of his knees. Lowering his feet, he felt the ground only about a foot below the end of the culvert.
Working his way free of the culvert, Marty awkwardly straightened up to stand. With one hand on the drain pipe to steady himself, Marty tried to take in his present surroundings. He could hear traffic noise, though a little distant. He worked his way toward the sound and found what appeard to be a concrete surface. He stood and found he was in what appeared to be a some kind of parking structure or possibly under a freeway bridge or overpass. Vertical concrete pillars were arranged in regular order with a concrete ceiling above.
From behind one of the pillars, Marty heard a sound. A disturbing metalic sound of someone snapping a round into an automatic. Marty squinted through the darkness and the haze in his brain to see where the sound came from. That is when he saw the shadowed silloette step out from behind one of the pillars.
"Mr. Fitzgerald is very disappointed in you, Marty" a voice came from the shadows.
"What are you talking about," Marty gasped, "I just met the guy?"
Marty could hear the crunching of the man's feet as he took two, slow and deliberate steps toward him. The chill Marty had felt earlier began to intensify.
"Apparently, Mr. Fitzgerald feels you cannot be trusted after all." came the voice again.
"Hey, wait a minute..." Marty began but was interrupted by a blinding muzzle flash and deafening roar.
Marty sat straight up, eyes wide and confused. Sweat covered his body and had saturated the sheets he was laying on. His chest heaved in and out with every gasp. He thought his heart would explode. The only thing he saw was the digital clock on his bedtable showing 6:32 am. It took until the clock changed to 6:33 for Marty to realize his situation. A dream?
Not all of it was a dream though. Reese Fitzgerald and "Chuckles" were difinately real enough. Marty used his hands to comb his hair back and try to get his bearings. He was home and in his own bed with the mother of all headaches. He made his way to the bathroom and splashed cold water in his face and stared into the mirror. Everything appeared to be in order, no bruises or fat lips from being beaten up, no missing fingers....nothing.
Man, Marty," he said to the reflection, "you really stepped into a big pile of **** this time, pal."
Marty went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee to maybe help clear his head a bit. As the machine brewed, he turned on the computer and let it boot while he got a mug from the cupbord.
"You've got mail." the voice came from his computer.
That cold chill returned to Marty's back when he heard the voice. He slowly went over the the monitor and saw that he had an e-mail from someone called 'Chuckles'.
"Damn," he thought, "It would have been nice if at least he was a dream."
The message read:
Looking forward to some more great posts on your blog. Chuckles.