CHAPTER 7b

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"...But why is it after you, specifically!?" Wally whined, as Steve recklessly drove the SUV in a manner that one can generally only do with a vehicle when it isn't one's own.  "Slow down will you!?  This thing's new!"

"Slow bloody GET OUT OF THE WAY down!?  Are you JESUS bonkers!?  There's a giant alien after PUT YOUR DAMN TINFOIL BACK ON MAN!  IT CAN READ whoops, lookout, MINDS!" Steve screamed, his manner of speech nearly as erratic as his driving.

"Is that bum flagging us down?" Wally queried.

"Ronald!  Shit!  I forgot all about Ronald!  Open the side door!"

"What!?  He's not coming in here!  He's covered in his own vomit!"

"No! No!  That's MY vomit!  Look man, just let him in!  He's the one who told me about the tinfoil in the first place!" Steve paused, wondering if he should be driving, but deciding firmly that it was a tad too late for that decision to be made.

"A crazy bum... of whom you'd thrown up upon... told you to wear tinfoil on your head, and you listened to him!?"

"It seemed perfectly reasonable at the..."  Steve's brain refused to continue his sentence, however, as it was using all of its processing power to record Ronald, and the fact that he seemed to be doing some form of gymnastic routine over the tops of nearby traffic, finishing, after an excessive, but seemingly necessary amount, of spinning, flipping, and the like, with a decidedly soft landing, upon the roof of Wally's SUV. 

It wasn't just impressive, it was down-right inhuman.  "...at the..." Steve's brain chugged and stalled, attempting to re-establish resources to driving, breathing, and speaking again all at the same time, much like an older tractor of whose fuel tank would constantly flood.  "...At the..  the... uhh..."

"Holy shit!  Did you see that!?" Wally paraphrased.

"At the... What!?  Of course I saw it!  He just… he just bounced off of… and he flipped… and now he’s…  and…  HE LANDED ON OUR FRIGGEN CAR!"

"SUV!"

"WHATEVER!"

"WHO THE HELL IS THIS GUY, SUPER-BUM!?"

"The name's Ronald, actually." Ronald muffled, knocking on the skylight, and, after a pause, making the universal roll down your window motion with his hand.  It wasn't totally applicable in this situation, but he felt it would get his message across nonetheless.

Wally pondered, paused, pontificated, persevereated, and finally, persevered in pushing the presumptuously pink button that Ronald was badly miming his desire to be pushed.

"Ah, thanks." He said, sliding in.  "Sorry about the vomit.  Nice car."

Wally sighed, "suv."

It was around now, that common sense, having been shoulder checking its way through Wally's need for excitement for most of the car-chase (or rather, car-reckless-driving, as it didn't seem that anyone, short of the local authorities, very likely, was chasing anybody) and having promptly made it past Wally's insecurities and social anxieties, and finally, making it to the proverbial floor, and proverbial podium from which to speak.

It seemed that he was in his vehicle, and it was being driven by someone else.  This alone, was somewhat of a concern, as his insurance wasn't made out for anyone else.  Add on top of that, that the person driving, was doing so only by definition, and, really, was doing so quite recklessly, and that added an extra notch (onto whatever common sense keeps a record upon via notching). 

On top of all this, not only the driver, who, by the way, was only partially dressed with clothes stolen from Wally's own department store, and of whom smelled to high Heaven (which really is a silly phrase and an even sillier concept, when you consider the likelihood of bad smells in Heaven), but also, his vomit-encrusted companion, who, for the record, also did not smell the nicest, and, finally, Wally himself (who smelled just fine, except for the nervous perspiration one would expect under such circumstances), were all wearing tinfoil on their heads.

It was around now, that, had common sense possessed an actual podium, and some notes with which to shuffle upon it, that it would have done so, to create a dramatic pause in which one was supposed to reflect.

There was also the, common sense continued, small issue of super-bum and his nonchalant vaulting over traffic, and the rather unprecedented event of being chased by a, for lack of any better explanation, space-alien... 

"Um..." Said Wally, in an effort to both express his feelings, and to give his common sense a breather (and possibly time to shuffle its notes).

"Quiet!" Steve yelped, swerving to miss one of the new Volvos with all those shiny expensive bits on the side.

"It's just that..." Wally pressed.

"Wally!  Please!  I'm trying to drive!" Steve pressed back, dawdling for a time upon the nearby curb in an effort to avoid vehicular homicide.

"I think we can slow down now," Ronald paused, as though just realizing he'd forgotten to buy milk when he was already at the proverbial checkout counter, "...Steve"