MR. BURKE BROUGHT THE scalpel toward my face again, but this time he cu t away the gag. "I probably should have untied that rather than cut it," he admitted. "I'm already over budget for the quarter. So what do you think so far? Be honest."

"I think you're a joke. What, you're making human action figures? How pathetically geeky is that?"

Mr. Burke chuckled. "Ah, Andrew, that comment would be much more devastating if you weren't so obviously terrified. You don't think I'm a joke. I can tell that your friend here doesn't think I'm a joke. How about I check on his piece of tail?"

He walked to the door Troll had taken Samantha through, opened it a crack, and peeked inside.

I wanted so badly to see Samantha's fist pop into view, punching Mr. Burke in the face, that for a moment I did see it.

Then I returned to reality. Mr. Burke closed the door and returned to us. "She's alive," he told Roger. "Though the word 'ouch' is probably appropriate. That Troll, he's a unique one, I'll give him that."

Witch returned to the room. "How does Goblin look?" Mr. Burke asked.

"Fine. Still leaking."

"Good, good." Mr. Burke picked up the walkie-talkie again and pressed the button. "Medusa?" Nothing. "Oh well." He set down the walkie-talkie then turned back to Witch. "Give Andrew here a quick shot so he doesn't wiggle so much."

Witch retrieved a hypodermic needle from the table. She jabbed it into my arm, and…

…I was suddenly on the operating table, strapped down by my wrists and ankles. A few tugs verified that I wasn't going anywhere. I felt Goblin's blood, wet underneath me.

"Ah, good, you're awake already. That was quick." Mr. Burke held up a small camera, about two inches square and remarkably thin. "This is a wireless digital webcam," he explained. "The distance isn't great, not more than five hundred yards, but it'll do."

Witch turned on a blowtorch and began to heat up a thin strip of metal, also about two inches square with a pair of clamps on it.

"We'll get near-DVD quality picture and sound with this thing, so hopefully you'll provide sufficient entertainment value."

"I don't know what the hell you're babbling about," I said.

"You'll figure it out. What we've got for you, Andrew, is a very special serum. It's untested, so for all I know it could kill you the second we inject it, but let's hope it doesn't. That would be a waste. It's sort of a chemical cocktail, mixed with hallucinogens and paranoia enhancers… not the technical term… and all sorts of fascinating ingredients."

"I'm ready," said Witch, lifting the red-hot metal with a pair of tongs.

"Then I'm sure Andrew is, too. You may proceed."

Witch pressed the metal, clamps-side-up, right above my solar plexus. My entire body tightened up as I screamed, not even pretending that I was going to deny Mr. Burke the pleasure of an extreme reaction. Witch pressed the metal deeper into my chest and I smelled burning flesh and chest hair.

I strained against the leather straps, wanting desperately to rip the hot metal off my body.

"Ah, yes, that should stay in place quite nicely," said Mr. Burke, observing Witch's handiwork with satisfaction. "We'll just let it cool before we attach the camera."

I found myself frantically blowing on the metal, as if that would help. Mr. Burke and Witch seemed to find this terribly amusing.

Roger was still struggling to break free of his chair, but making no progress.

"I think we're ready for the injection," said Mr. Burke. He leaned over me and spoke tenderly. "Now, this is going to hurt just a little bit, sort of like having your flesh shredded with a cheese grater from the inside and then microwaved. But don't worry, it's not addictive."

Witch patted my forearm to get a vein.

I struggled with every ounce of strength I could muster. In all of the times I'd been tied up or strapped down or otherwise prevented from enjoying freedom of movement, I'd never successfully managed to break free through the use of superhuman strength, and I was due. I visualized myself breaking free. I visualized Roger breaking free. I visualized Samantha breaking through the door and breaking us free. I visualized Kyle breaking through the ceiling in a superhero cape and breaking us free.

I remained strapped to the bloody operating table.

Witch held up the hypodermic needle, squeezing some liquid out to avoid injecting an air bubble into my bloodstream. She brought it down slowly toward my arm.

I was concerned that my final thought in this world might be something stupid like my seven year-old son breaking through a ceiling in a superhero cape, but I couldn't force myself to think of anything else.

Witch slid the needle into my skin.

A warm, almost soothing feeling flowed through my arm.

Followed immediately by the most devastating pain I'd ever felt in my life. A dozen times worse than, say, chopping off my finger or having a red-hot piece of metal pressed against my chest.

I screamed and screamed and screamed.

Then, for a change of pace, I shrieked and shrieked and shrieked.

I may have said "Ow!"

It really, really hurt.

"My, my, listen to Andrew scream," said Mr. Burke. His chuckle echoed throughout the room.

It didn't really echo, did it?

Yes, it did. In fact, it was still echoing. And getting louder. I heard it in stereo.

Mr. Burke smiled, revealing oversized teeth.

I looked at my straps and gasped in horror. They'd transformed into… well, they were still leather straps, but they were unexplainably scary leather straps.

"Is it working, Andrew?" asked Mr. Burke, his voice dropping an octave or two. "How do you feel?"

"I hurt."

"How does your mind feel?"

"I don't know. I think it hurts."

Mr. Burke held up his hand in front of me. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three," I said. Suddenly that seemed amazingly funny. Three fingers! He was holding up three fingers! Right in front of my face! I giggled.

Giggling was so much more fun than screaming. But screaming had its positive aspects, too, like giving your lungs a workout and keeping them healthy, and alerting people to your presence who might otherwise ignore you, and…

I giggled some more.

I raised my back as much as I could. "Something is swimming in Goblin's blood."

"And what do you think that might be?"

"I dunno. You tell me." I giggled at my joke. "It's a little man swimming in there. A tiny little man swimming in Goblin's blood. I hope he doesn't pee in it."

"I hope he doesn't, either," said Mr. Burke, still smiling at me with those oversized, way-too-white teeth.

"You've got funky teeth" I told him. "Pull them out for me."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Oh. Bummer."

I looked at Roger, who looked hilariously miserable. He almost looked like he was going to cry. And he was a grown man!

I laughed at him.

I suddenly realized that I didn't hurt anymore. And that there were now several tiny little men swimming in Goblin's blood. One of them was doing the breaststroke.

"You know," I told Mr. Burke, "it takes a lot of work to kill a man with paper cuts, but I'm patient."

Mr. Burke kept smiling. All of his face was gone except for his teeth.

"You know what?" I asked.

"What?"

"That's what." I frowned. "That wasn't funny. You know what?"

"What?"

"That's what." I laughed hysterically, and then I slammed myself against the table a couple of times to crush the millions of tiny little men swimming in Goblin's blood.

"Tell me, Andrew, are you afraid of demons?"

"Dee-mons! Dee-mons!"

"There are demons everywhere, you know."

"Spooky scary demons!"