No Time for Concussions

Hi, my name is Joey.

VOICE: Joey! Wake up!

If I'm dead, and I still have to listen to Ritchie talk, then Heaven is a cruel, cold place.

VOICE: WAKE UP!

That was when I felt him slap me across the face.

ME: AH!

We were surrounded by a pile of what I guess used to be Prisms.

ME: Why aren't we dead?
RITCHIE: That giant cardboard cut-out of Cher shielded us.
ME: Wow. Now I feel bad for making all those Silkwood comments.

Ritchie was playing around with his camera.

I guess you can blow up with club with the reporter in it, but you can't blow up the--

RITCHIE: YES! It's still working.
ME: Shouldn't we find the guys? Or police? Or someone who can tell me why I have double vision?
RITCHIE: No time. We have to find the gunman.
ME: Ritchie--
RITCHIE: Joey, journalism waits for no one. This could be my Emmy.
ME: Don't you have an Emmy.
RITCHIE: A Daytime Emmy, but that's not a real Emmy. They might as well make it out of gummy bears.
ME: That sounds nice.
RITCHIE: Focus! We need to think about where he could be headed.
ME: The mall?
RITCHIE: Don't be an idiot. Why would he go to the mall?
ME: Because of that spotlight hitting the top of the parking garage?

I pointed to what I was talking about. Ritchie turned around, and there it was. The police spotlight aimed at the mall.

RITCHIE: We can make it there in ten minutes if we run.
ME: I think my leg's broken.
RITCHIE: Eight minutes if we run fast. Let's go.

And he was off and running.

I had to go with him.

Not because I cared about what was going on with the gunman, but because he picked me up and threw me over his shoulders.

I have to admit, it was kind of chivalrous.

At least, that was what I thought right before I passed out.