I've been shot, you say? In the head, no less. And yet, in this land of little infrastructure and littler unmucked-up technology and supplies, you've managed to save me. This is truly remarkable. I suppose I should be grateful, but really, I'm too busy having a headache.
Jesus, dude, do you ever shut up? Just got saved from having my brains blown out, I don't think I can really answer questions right now.
My name? Um ... um, um, um. Seems like I should know this. Courier? No, that's not it. Pilar? Sounds familiar. I think that's it.
What do I look like? Seems to me it'd be easier for you to judge that than me, but I guess I'll give it a go. Might make a few changes -- all within the boundaries of artistic license, of course.
Hm. Can't seem to get rid of that ridiculous raccoon tanline. I'll just have to wear glasses all the time, I guess. Or get some sort of wicked facial tattoo. Something.
Although, come to think of it, that's probably how I got into the immortal tanline situation in the first place.
Okay, Doc, can I rest now?
What? No, I don't really feel like walking right now. Bugger. Of course, if you're going to let me play that nifty arcade game you've got over there, I really can't refuse. It's only polite.
Blast! Rather than an entertaining piece of fun, this seems to be another part of your scheme to wrest personal information from me.
Okay. Strength. I don't feel particularly strong. I think I'm more the wiry type. Let's pick 'lightweight'.
Perception. I seem to be the most perceptive person in the room, not that it's much of a contest. You're the one who's asking the chick with the concussion from hell to take a goddamned history of the life, universe and everything exam. 'Big-eyed tiger', let's go with that.
Endurance. I've got to be somewhat enduring to have made it through the shot-in-the-head incident. But I don't feel like the Terminator, either. Let's go with 'hardy'.
Charisma. Right now, I'm feeling about as charismatic as a two-hundred-year-old can of Spam, but I'm sure that's just a side effect of near death. I'm going to choose 'substitute teacher'.
Intelligence. Blah blah blah. Just going to wing this one and pick 'gifted'. I have absolutely no idea why, but I definitely feel more gifted than knowledgeable at this point.
Agility. Mmmm. 'Knife-thrower' has kind of a catchy ring to it.
Luck. You kidding me? How fucking lucky can I be? I got shot in the head, for Christsakes. I did live, though, I guess. Maybe it's a toss-up. Better go with 'coin-flip'.
I get this feeling you're not going to let me go back to bed, Doc. More questions? Fine. Whatever. This has to end sometime. Lead on.
Couch. Chair. You on the latter, me, the former. Do you moonlight as a shrink or something?
Um, Doc? Do you have a wife or anything? Because, you know, she might not take it so well that you've got this impressionable unclothed young woman sitting on your couch.
Hell, I'm not taking it so well, and I'm not your wife. Do you think you could spare a blanket or something, at least?
No, no, no, it's all business with you, isn't it? Fine. Carry on.
How I feel about these statements is ... they're a waste of my time. And yours. Let's just get through this as fast as possible.
Really, Doc. I'm not sure your ticker could handle my impressions of your inkblots at this point. Also, none of your options really fit. Guess I'll just have to pick the best ... wait a second ...
You know, I'd like to tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.
Because I really can't stand the thought of a septuagenarian bachelor/widower getting his jollies by listening to young women describe intimate aspects of their anatomy. Go buy a set of naughty playing cards, like everyone else.
After all this, you think you know me? Looks like your shrink skills aren't really up to your revival-of-the-nearly dead skills. Better not quit the day job. You know what? Let me just tell you what's really important to me.
There. Wasn't that easy? Couldn't you have just let me tell you about it in the first place?
Now can you give me some pants?
More shit. Fuck me. At least you're letting me pick my own stuff instead of just giving me the run around.
Wacky, I'm up for wacky. LSD, peyote, whatever y'all got around here.
Hmm. I've already determined glasses are the way to go with these preternatural tanlines I've got, so I might as well get a perk for it.
Finally! We're getting up! We're moving toward the door! I'm going to be free!
Blah blah blah, you're empathizing. I would be more interested in hearing your story if you'd give me some clothes. And maybe some shrooms.
Sunny Smiles? That has got to be a hooker.
Maybe I judged you wrong, Doc. Maybe. But we're still not even on the psychoanalyzed-in-my-knickers thing.
So long. It's been real, it's been fun, it's been ...
Screw it. It's been contrived, it's been awkward, it's been awkwardly contrived.
Next time: meeting Sunny Smiles.