Chapter 17
I wake up in a foul but hollow mood. It’s a lot like waking up in a bathtub full of ice and a ten-inch long surgical scar, but the organ that’s been removed is the one which lets you be pissed off. Judging from the creepy birthday wallpaper and the unmistakable motel smell I’ve been “rescued” again by the mimes. Fabulous. I swear, but my heart isn’t really in it.
I don’t feel that weak so I prop myself up on an elbow. The bedspread shows Wynken, Blynken and Nod attacking a space station with their up-armored flying shoe. Magic burns through my blood like acid and the only thing that stops me from setting the bed on fire is a sudden and overwhelming surge of apathy. The mimes would just buy another one. Or more likely, the Unspoken would theatrically flourish and every apartmen
