His stomach had been employed by a gang of road menders for brewing up a batch of hot tar; he could distinctly feel the bubbles swelling and popping. His head had been dribbled up and down a basketball court for several close-fought quarters; and his eyes—apparently they'd been extracted, used in a Ping-Pong tournament, and rudely jammed back into their sockets."Hey—I think he's coming around," a frog-deep voice said. "That last groan was a lot healthier-sounding.""He's all yours, Roy. Let me know if he relapses." Footsteps clunked; a door opened and closed. Lafayette pried an eye open, looked up at a perforated acoustical ceiling with flush-mounted fluorescents. Ignoring the fish spear someone had carelessly left embedded in his neck, he turned his head, saw a stubby little man with a cheerful, big-nosed face peering at him anxiously."How are ya, pal?" the watcher inquired."Yokabump," O'Leary chirped feebly, and lay back to watch the lights whirl."Cripes, a foreigner," the froggy voice said.
