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Bad Angel
Salvage Sans Salvation
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"What happened?" he wondered aloud, his smashed mouth rendering the words a mumble. As all victims of such violence and trauma must, he asked, "Where am I?"

"You crashed your car, sir," returned a mustachioed medic, who hovered over Christen, as others prepared the wounded man for transport via helicopter. "How much have you had to drink this evening? What sort of drugs did you take?"

Christen's tongue and lips refused to work, fat, swollen and bruised black as they were. He shook his head, and garbled, "None. Nothing. No."

"Come on, sir," returned the disbelieving attendant, as he fixed a sensor to Christen's neck with a bit of tape, "This is New Year's Eve, a half hour from midnight, everybody's had something to drink, or smoke or snort. What was it? Whiskey? Beer? Pot?"

Again, Christen shook his head, though it ached miserably. He mumbled his denials.

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