Groggy's Nightmare

After several days in Durango recovering from his leg wound, Groggy Dundee realized the horrible truth: HE WAS IN HELL!

He was trapped, in a dirty hellhole, filled with violent knife-wielding bar flies. French secret police were everywhere, watching his every move. . . (Cue soundtrack music.) His command was miles away, under the command of either a dolt or an untrustworthy traitor, and he had no way to reach them. And he had nothing to do but sit around and eat.

And eat. . . and eat. . . He must have gained sixty pounds in two days.

An attractive Mexican woman, Melinche, was tending to him. She wasn't exactly Groggy's type, but he didn't care so long as she gave him food. Groggy was fortunate that there was an Applebee's next door to the bar, and they had allowed take out. He was always got the same thing; steak and chicken fajitas, with Spanish rice, pico de gilo, sour cream, and guacamole. Melinche tried to talk him out of it - No, it's bad for the digestion, you'll be gassy and crapping all night - but Groggy didn't care.

Groggy's soda habit was also a problem; he was drinking so much Root Beer, Dr. Pepper, and Cream Soda that he had to get up to use the restroom four times a night. And after awhile, even Melinche got sick of helping him to the filthy, roach-infested latrine at 3 in the morning.

Finally, Melinche got sick of Groggy altogether and abandoned him. He was now trapped, alone, in the middle of Durango, with no way out and no one to turn to.

* * *

Groggy fell asleep fitfully, between epic bouts of Mountain Dew Code Red and Cheddar Cheese Goldfish crackers. He had a disturbing flashback to the beginning of the expedition, the massacre, Lieutenant Brannin and the burning Furbies. . . he then realized that it wasn't Lieutenant Brannin burning, but him!

Groggy sat up SCREAMING at the top of his lungs, but there was no one to hear. He was all alone, not sure of what to do next. He had done the worst thing imaginable - backed himself into a corner, with no possible avenue of escape.

* * *

Petain, the fat French spy, sat at the bar drinking. He was waiting for Groggy to come down and show himself so that he could arrest him. He had been given explicit instructions not to arrest Dundee unless they could be sure of his identity. It would have been very easy for the fat secret policeman to arrest him, but he wasn't allowed. So he just sat, and drank, and sat, and drank. . .

His agents picked Melinche the previous night. She was out looking for some fast food, and had gotten into a heated argument with the cashier over incorrect change. This continue until two companies of French soldiers, including a platoon of tanks, arrived to arrest her.

Melinche was treated roughly, but not tortured; she said that Dundee was who the French said they were, that they could capture him for all she cared.

Now, Colonel Chasse, commander of the French Groupment Mobile 100 assigned to track down Dundee's command, had explicit, frustrating, typically illogical orders: you can't arrest Dundee or that would cause a war with the US! Nevermind that Dundee's men had already engaged in the French soldiers in several skirmishes; we mustn't provoke them! Fuck that, thought Colonel Chasse, my country's more important than my fucking orders! But he was forced to follow them to the T; and so Dundee remained ensconced in a den of self-indulgence and contempt.

After several more hours of drinking, Petain was suddenly approached by a young woman. She was very young, with light brown hair and brown eyes, and was dressed in a casual civilian manner. She spoke French with just a trace of American accent; not enough to arouse suspicion at any rate.

After a brief conversation, the fat Froggy was told by this woman, who called herself Sofie, that she was an American spy for the French government, and that she would go upstairs to deduce the identity of the man in question. She knew Dundee very well, she said, and would arrest him if it definitely was him. Petain was too drunk to care, and nodded his assent.

* * *

Groggy continued drinking soda, and now had to hobble to the bathroom on his own. It took thirty minutes. Unable to sleep, he then started reading the one book he'd taken with him - "Day of the Jackal", which he STILL hadn't finished. He was up to the part where the British police inspectors discovered the Jackal's apparent identity, Charles Calthrop, and were trying to deduce his false name. . .

He must have dozed off while reading, because he next awoke groggily (as is appropriate to his name) to an angelic voice singing a song from his distant past:

You think you own whatever land you land on
The Earth is just a dead thing you can claim
But I know every rock and tree and creature
Has a life, has a spirit, has a name

Groggy rubbed his eyes. He knew the song, but couldn't place it. . .

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned?
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountains?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

Groggy reached for his gun as the chorus continued:

Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

The figure now levelled a Colt .45 Peacemaker at his head. As Groggy's vision suddenly came into focus, he suddenly realized that the woman was - no, it couldn't be -

MICHELLE!

Yes, somehow Michelle had survived being stabbed in the back of the neck and (apparently) being buried in a mass grave. Groggy was always impressed by her extraordinary beauty, and astonished by the fact that she was alive, but was a bit perturbed by the gun she had pointed at his head.

"Hi, Groggy!" she said, chuckling her trademark chuckle.

"Michelle," Groggy grumbled tired. "I thought you were dead."

"So did everyone else," she said unemotionally. "So did I. But here I am."

Groggy was confused. "What's with the gun?" He asked.

"Just to be on the safe side," she said, putting it away. "I know you've been wounded and delirious." She looked at the empty soda bottles. "And drinking. . . quite a lot."

Groggy didn't answer. "Why are you singing Disney songs?" He had a horrendous headache.

"Why not?"

Groggy was still confused, still entirely sure he wasn't dreaming or at least seeing a ghost.

"I've been in touch with Captain Tyreen," she said, getting down to business. "He says there are too many French soldiers in town to rescue you - yet. But he and Joe are coming up with a plan to rescue you."

"I see," Groggy said. "Why not Joe?"

"The Captain seems to be in charge."

"I'd imagine," Groggy muttered, his voice trailing off.

"But anyway, they've recruited several more members, and are camped a few miles north of here," Michelle continued.

"Several more members? Who?"

Michelle shrugged. "The scum of the Earth?" She chuckled.

"I see," Groggy said. This perturbed him a bit, but what the hell - we need all the help we can get.

"I'll be back if I can," Michelle said. "I convinced the guy downstairs that I'm a French spy. Honnêtement, je n'ai pas pensé que mon français était cela bon. But I certainly, won't complain."

Michelle got up to leave. Groggy turned and looked after her. "How long do I have to wait?"

Michelle shrugged helplessly.

"It was great seeing you," Groggy muttered, still surprised.

"Just one thing," Michelle added hastily. "The French are ordered not to arrest you until they're one hundred percent sure of who you are. So be careful."

"Thanks."

Michelle exited, humming. Groggy called after her. "How high does the sycamore grow?"

Michelle smiled. "If you cut it down, you will never know."

Michelle exited, then reported to Petain, who was unsurprisingly drinking. She told him that the man upstairs was NOT Groggy Dundee, although he might be a member of his command. She advised him to keep doing what he's been doing until further orders. Michelle exited hastily as Petain passed out in a puddle of drool and whiskey.

* * *

After this visit, Groggy staggered around the town, trying to avoid the French soldiers who seemed to be everywhere. He travelled from Taco Bell to McDonald's to Chick-Fil-A to KFC. . . in a desperate attempt to avoid detection. His eating habits would remain a mystery to the fatass Petain, except he liked fast food places.

Groggy lay in the midst of empty soda bottles and fast food wrappers. His bladder was about to explode, but he was too tired and too much in pain to move. He tried to read his book again, but let it drop to the floor wearily.

"No. . ." he mumbled. "The war won't last forever."