So, essentially, we had a situation where the sidekick with the longest attention-span wins. Which of us was going to get sick of the I Can’t Make New Memories Game first?
I reflected, as Creepy smiled baffledly, that there was a good chance he’d already won.
“Um, listen, this is going to sound a little weird, but I have this condition…”
“Chronic groin pain?”
He stepped back out of kicking range, proving that his loss of short-term memory wasn’t affecting his sense of self-preservation. “I’ve told you about my condition before?”
“No, but people like you almost always suffer from chronic groin pain. Sooner or later.”
“I’ve made a breakthrough in my case,” he said excitedly, waving his Polaroids and fistfuls of notes. “I need you – and Yool, the vigorously buff Christmas tree who has been here the whole time – to come with me.”
Instead of answering, he tapped the back of my picture. I leaned forward and read it.
“He thinks he’s funny but he’s not,” I recited aloud. “Don’t let him write new notes. His name is Sputum and he’s trying to kill me. Don’t let him put on his sunglasses and go outside. The clues are written on his…” I glared at Creepy. “You wrote notes on my…”
“How should I know?” he eyed me up and down. “I hope I wore gloves.”
I’d thought I was unimpressed before, but my unimpressedness began to explore new levels of impressedness-deficit. I should have seen where it was all heading, and known that this was just the beginning. This is the point where Creepy will invariably blame –