A CUPFUL OF TROUBLE part 2

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You know how they say when your life is about to end, you can see it flash before your eyes? Don’t believe it. It’s a lie. What often comes to mind, when you’re waiting on your back in an abandoned alley by 3 o’clock, anticipating the bite of a machete swung downward in the arms of a psychotic doctor is a totally random thought like “what’s that light behind him?” followed by wondering if you have any money in your account and who gets it after your death. Or second death, as my case was.

Even as the machete seemed to suspend midair, savouring it’s journey to parting me with choice body parts, the light behind D.L brightened even further and I heard a dull thud. The machete dropped and clattered to the ground. Sir Madman was flung through the air like a child’s discarded rag doll and crumpled to a heap a short distance away.

Shielding my eyes feebly with my palm, I was finally able to make out the outline of two headlamps. Some sort of vehicle.
A door opened, shut and footsteps came in my general direction
Frozen in the intense glare of the headlights, like our mutual friend Monsieur Bunny Rabbit, I was still trembling (manfully) when someone got in front of me and said the words I wanted to hear since I started running.
“Come with me if you want to not die.”
The voice was soft and feminine, and totally begging for my trust.

I did the reasonable thing of course, by standing up and running like the hounds of hell itself were after me.
The person jumped into the car and drove after me in pursuit- but this was easier- as all I had to do was to get to a place small enough to make it impossible to drive, but big enough for me to run in.

Sadly, the world doesn’t really care for your needs and as such I was unable to find what I required. All the while the lady kept honking and asking me to get in the car in a voice so nice it made me want to just do what she said like a good boy but I kept running. Then we got out and found ourselves on a wide street. She drove close enough and ambled along beside me driving smoothly while I huffed and puffed and tried to outrun an automobile.

Finally the abject insanity of my situation dawned on me and I stopped to catch my breath.

“Come on,” that sweet voice again “get in the car, your chances of survival are higher if you do.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’d probably die.” The way she said it made it sound like it wasn’t such a bad thing to do, this dying. But no thank you, already tried it, didn’t like it. It’s obviously not for me.

“Who are you?”

“Nonya” what?!

“Nonya who?”

“Nonya business. I’m here to help. Get in the car.”
I took two steps back. Two more for good measure. It’s quite healthy to put a little distance between yourself and someone who keeps insisting you get in their car. You know, just in case they turn out to be another murderous sociopath. Not that I’m calling anyone that, being honest and polite and all that.

“You know, we are not entirely sure you would recover again if you die again. It wouldn’t be fair if you let all that research go to waste.”
My jaw practically hit the muddy ground.

What did she just say?

“What research?”

“Why don’t you come in and then you’d find out?”
At this point… I woke up.

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