Apocalypse Northwest

[Merlin the Tuna]

Flint Ironstag and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Flint slowly drags his face off of the floor, wiping off the bit of drool dribbling down his cheek. He rolls over with a flop, staring up at the ceiling and quietly swearing that it really ought to sit still and stop its spinning and warping. After clutching his head and groaning for a few minutes, he looks down at his right hand, wondering why it feels like he just finished playing tag with a scorpion the size of a truck. The charred flesh on his right hand is a good reminder, as is the bleeding spine wound on his left shoulder blade. He collects his jacket from the floor, closes his eyes for a moment, and, catching his second wind, rises to his feet. Still half in a daze, he begins lurching towards the door, muttering "Freeman. Gotta get to Freeman."