“Charity,” I sent numbly, staring down at my blood-covered hand and the spreading puddle beneath me on the tan carpeting, “um, um... sorry. Lemmee... lemme try again. See there’s... oh this is funny... there’s a... there’s a Black Pudding on my bed, and I have a leak.”
“What are you talking about, Harry? Did you have an accident in your sleep? I’ll call the front desk.”
“Christ, Charity! I’m... making red all over the floor and you want me... want me to itemize? I am NOT slowly dying of exsang... um, exsangui... blood loss on a crap motel carpet with... with the world thinking I caught Dysentery on the Oregon Trail! Ooh, the floorshreallywet...”
The front door turned on its side like a capsizing ship, and my left hand clenched. Then that hand, arm and shoulder all went numb. I was bleeding out. Very slowly. From my hand. Deadpool would have whipped out a camera and taken a selfie.