Okay, we're past that bit, so you can open your eyes again. "What a relief! [Slurp!]" So, while Raoul was cowering behind one of his perfectly manicured paws, Panicked Sammy raced through the aggravatingly jerky nighttime streets of some anonymous burg likely in the middle of nowhere while pursued by a violently screaming prowler. By the time we rejoin him, he's hid out in a dank and forbidding alleyway, and once the police cars have vanished, he ducks inside the delivery entrance of a deserted bar that's about to close. The obviously harassed barmaid tiredly tells him to come back in the morning if he still wants a cocktail, but Panicked Sammy heaves and sighs and unleashes The Super-Special Puppy-Dog Eyes Of Pleading And Doom, so the hapless barmaid has little choice but to let him stay, even though she's become aware of the fact that he's being chased by the cops. To her credit, though, she does surreptitiously retrieve a sawed-off baseball bat from beneath the bar, so good for her. Unfortunately, we later find out that all of this is happening inside Panicked Sammy's freakish Cro-Magnon skull, so I don't know why they bothered showing us something Panicked Sammy himself could not see. "Ooops! [Slurp!]"
In any event, the barmaid eventually asks Panicked Sammy for his name. Simple, right? One problem: He doesn't know. "I don't remember!" Panicked Sammy pants. "I don't remember anything!" DUN! Also:
Tinkle, Tinkle RAAAWWWR! Have you anything to add at this juncture, my scaly friend? "I do not!" Then I shall continue. "Fabulous idea! [Slurp!]"
"You're dicking with me," the barmaid alleges while offering Somewhat Less Panicked Sammy a tall and frosty El Sol, accompanied by an incredulous eyebrow. "I'm telling ya," Increasingly Unpanicked Sammy buhs, pulling on the beer. "Blank slate." He's also lacking anything helpful on his person like a wallet or a cell phone, so the barmaid asks him for the last thing he does remember. "I woke up on a park bench," Rather Calm Actually Sammy replies, "cops shoving a flashlight in my face, trying to take me in." "So you ran?" the barmaid guesses. "No," Fairly Befuddled But Otherwise Okay Sammy shakes his head. "I, um, knocked 'em out cold -- both of them." Off the barmaid's wicked side-eye, Just Plain Sammy For Now Sammy vows that it must have been some kind of crazy, instinctive response to subconsciously perceived danger, but the barmaid's not having it, and insists they head to the emergency room, pronto. "I don't have time!" Sam claims. "Time for what?" the barmaid quite naturally wonders. "I just feel like I have to be somewhere," he twitches, rising from his barstool to turn his back on her and stare at the wall for whatever stupid reason. She assures him he'll remember whatever eventually, and pretty much tries to get him to sit down again, but he wanders over to a nearby shelf of bar books, and he pulls out a volume entitled The Haunter Of The Dark And Other Tales by H. P. Lovecraft. "Hateful!" shrieks Raoul, once again pointing an accusatory yet exquisitely honed claw at the television screen. "Positively beastly old man!" "Old"? He was in his mid-forties when he d.... "POSITIVELY BEASTLY OLD MAN!" Okay! Okay! H. P. Lovecraft was a positively hateful and beastly old man. "Thank you! [Slurp!]" Now, do you mind if I get back to the story, such as it is? "Not at all! Please continue!"