“I’m hit, aren’t I?” Butters stuttered. “I’m in shock. I can’t feel it because I’m in shock. Right? Was it in the liver? Is the blood black? Call emergency services!” “Butters,” I said. “Look at me.” He did, his eyes wide. “Polka,” I said, “will never die.” He blinked at me. Then he nodded and started forcing himself to take slower, deeper breaths. “I’m all right?” “The magic underwear worked,” I said. “You’re fine.” “Then why does my back hurt so much?” “Somebody just hit it twice with a hammer moving about twelve hundred feet per second,” I said. “Oh,” he said.
