He tries to sprint past me toward the door—toward freedom—but I scramble on top of him like a vervet. It seems at first that due to the disability of one arm the odds may have been evened, but they have not. We exchange positions of advantage enough times for me to feel as if I have a good shot at delaying him until the cops arrive, but then several painful and demeaning things happen rapidly to my face, at the conclusion of which my nose flattens, its cavities collapse, and I am scarfing down injudicious amounts of metallic-tasting liquid.

Again he breaks for the door and, even though I am discharging blood prodigiously and handicapped by running on sponges, I again give chase and ensnare him. We knot and unknot and knot and unknot. He’s not as strong as Schermer but he’s much faster. His movements are efficient and disciplined, bird-quick. When we separate again, the Rat Burglar, hunchbacked in agony, circles right in inebriated, limping steps. I try to shake my head clear, gasp for oxygen, and circle left. It is evident that I don’t stand much chance going toe-to-toe. Chaotic lawlessness, flailing, and, possibly, groin shots seem to be the order of the day. So I decide to bum-rush the guy, a decision that seems wise until the moment when I lunge forward only to observe an uppercut launch straight up and into my chin. My head snaps backwards, after which there seems to be a short interval of timelessness and void, and then I madcow violently across the room.

Before I fall over he is on top of me. A forearm presses sharply into my carotid. Turning my head sideways I find the biceps, get a mouthful, and bite down as hard as I can. The arm flashes away and I spin around, throwing an accidental elbow that lands squarely in the Rat Burglar’s mush. Red liquid sprays out of the nose opening in the ski mask. Now I will be able, at minimum, to say, “Yeah, but you should have seen the other guy.”

Flushing with pride, I cock back a fist, but before I can even cry out “And a-two!” something pulps my kidney and I hunch over sideways. Next thing I know I am on the ground again with my neck collared by his legs and I’m breathing heavy shoe leather.

This time the chokehold is on snug and certain. I can’t move my head one inch. I can barely move my eyeballs. A shinbone cuts sharply against my larynx and a tube of darkness constrictsaround my vision. I try to gag but no air comes in and no air goes out. Twinkling lights appear before me, dance merrily, and sizzle against my eyelids. Being a connoisseur of unconsciousness, I know this heralds an unfavorable outcome.

The only thing I can see is the tuft of the hypo in the dart gun. It looks very red.