It continues in the inevitable, almost required, sequence.

When Harry regained consciousness., the cell around him was enshrouded with mist, and the staff was nowhere in sight. The cell door swung a jar of peanut butter back and forth. Harry staggered to his small, yet hirsute feet, his cranium playing the last movement of the 1812 overture. He stumbled out the door, and into the street. The fog thickened. In the distance, our hero could hear the approach of a tractor unit, downshifting and popping the brakes. “Betsy?” he posited.



From the fog, a shapely figure appeared, clad in a red metallic jump suit, with chromed protuberances. Heavy rubber hippy sandals enclosed her magnesium shaded toenails. About her aerodynamic sleeper was a polyethylene strand skirt, with Yosemite Sam accessories in abundance. “Betsy?”, Harry wondered aloud.
“Come with me, Horatio” , breathed the high octane unit, in a voice reminiscent of a four-barrel carb full out. And she extended her large yet shapely hand. A strange inverted 3-legged “h” tattoo, encircled by the digits 1 to 5 was prominent on her walnut-stained palm. Harry grasped her appendage and followed her into the gloom. In the distance, the fog seemed to clear, and they promenaded down the boulevard toward the clearing.

Harry itched to return to the hoosegow and vent his spleen on Sin City’s finest But Betsy, as he thought of his succorer, urged him on. “We must cross this bridge, Horatio,” she rumbled, “and then you’ll be your old self”
“I feel fine.” Harry responded, “What do you mean?”
“This isn’t what you think, my knight of the road”, Betsy soothed.
“Listen Honey,” Harry protested, “what’s going on? I feel fine. Whaddya mean, old self?”
“You’re having a bad night,” Betsy said. “That knock on your noggin did you no good.”

By this time Betsy had conveyed Harry toward the clearing in the fog. A narrow suspensing bridge crossed a raging torrent. Torrents don’t like bad prose. They crossed over the bridge, and into a steamy jungle. The screeching parrots and rusty monkey gyms lent some atmosphere to the increasingly uninspired story.

Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through Harry’s skull and he fell face up into the path.

To be continued...