The Question

Despite the other Michael's distrust of Janet, I felt the need to give her a call and tell her what happened. The need was almost instinctual.

"You'll never guess who paid me a visit."

"Who?"

"Michael."

"Very funny, Michael. Which one?"

"Ummmm..."

At this point, I was fumbling through the directory he left behind to see if I could find his picture.

"It wasn't 45317, was it, Michael?"

"Ummmm....."

"It WASN'T 45317, WAS it, Michael???"

"Of course it wasn't. It was, uhh....38959."

"What the hell did he want?"

"Actually, I'm not entirely sure."

"Be careful with him, Michael. He's a bit..."

"Yeah, I know, I know."

"Michael, you DO know what you are supposed to do if you see 45317, right?....Michael?....Michael??...."

The Loot

In this case, not the money. In this case, it's what the "other" Michael left behind.

Since I am still a little fuzzy and the guy I clocked seemingly had a much better grasp on reality than I, I had no choice to let him go with an apology.

But after he left, I went back into the bedroom where he was when I hit him and proceeded to look for whatever it was that he was supposed to leave behind.

I found this medium sized binder. And when I opened it, my confusion continued.

In this binder were photos of all of these men and women. Probably a hundred of each. And each of the men had the same exact name as me and all of the women had the same exact name as Janet. The only thing that defined us were the numbers beside our names.

I was Michael X 89257.

There was one photo that was missing. It looked like it had been torn out. That was the photo for Michael X 45317.

The Dilemma

"Jesus, Michael, you sure do have a good swing."

I suppose he could have been far more pissed off than he was that I clocked him (and damn-near killed him), but he was surprisingly understanding.

But the part that was very weird is that he proceeded to ask me why we bothered to schedule a staged "break-in" at my apartment for that day if I was just going to attack him anyway.

I had to fess up that I had a "real" break-in a few weeks ago and was still jittery. Truth is, I had no idea that he was supposed to be at my place at all.

And the other thing I couldn't understand was why he had an ID on him that had his picture, but my name. But I figured I couldn't come out and ask him what was up with that.

He rubbed the back of his neck a lot when he was babbling until I finally interrupted him. "So, did you take what you needed before I got to you?"

"Michael, you know I wasn't taking anything. I was putting stuff IN here. Just like the plan. Look, you're acting very strange? Are you sure Janet didn't put you up to this? I'm telling you, there's something about her I don't trust", he said.

"We Michaels have to stick together."

The Awakening (His, Not Mine)

OK, so I'm pacing around the apartment wondering what I am going to do with this guy I just knocked out and hopefully not killed. If this guy ends up not waking up, I have no idea what to do. I'm not sure I can call Janet about it at this point and for all I know, the police are not my friend.

I did make him a little more comfortable than my intruders left me. Granted, I did tie up the guy's feet and hands and left him in a stone cold bathtub, but I did give him a blanket and a pillow, partially for his comfort, but mostly to collect the small, but deliberate trickle of blood from the back of his head where I slugged him.

So, I'm pacing around like a caged animal when I start to hear stirring and moaning coming from the bathroom. I grab the bat again just in case and go to the doorway.

I peek in and this guy is struggling with his hands and feet, not quite aware that they are bound, apparently. Also, his eyes are flickering as if he is getting adjusted to the light. After a few seconds, he opens his eyes fully and gives them a couple of methodical slow blinks to focus on me. He furrows his brow in confusion and croaks:

"Jesus Christ, Michael, what the hell did you do THAT for??"

The Warehouse

I arrived at the address that Janet had written down on the piece of paper she gave to me before her hasty retreat from my apartment.

It was some sort of warehouse on the edge of the city and it didn't look like much had been happening in it for quite some time.

I took a bus three-quarters of the way there, and then hopped out and into a cab and then zig-zagged out of my way on foot to get there and the whole time a brown sedan carrying two men was almost always in sight.

After I swiped the access card and entered the password (NOT 45317, but thanks for wondering), I found myself in this massive room that contained file cabinet upon file cabinet. I had no idea what I was looking for, so I just started randomly grabbing bunches of paper. I couldn't figure any of it out. Some of the papers were just line after line of binary code. Others were written in a language or combination of languages I had never seen or heard before.

All the files were numbered and in reasonable order. I found file #45317 and opened up the manila folder. It was empty. Well, except for one thing. A copy of my credit card receipt from Paragon, the place I was at before the break-in.

I'm really starting to chase my tail. And I'm really worried that I am going to have to have another face-to-face with Janet and fess up to not remembering anything before the night of the intruders. She's going to ream me out for not telling her right away. How can I explain to her that I didn't know if she was a friend or an enemy? Or that I still don't know if she is a friend or an enemy?

I made it back to the apartment and about halfway home, the brown sedan guys veered off my trail.

I was settling in, pacing around the living room, picking up the phone and putting it down about twenty times, trying to psych myself up to call Janet when I heard something coming from the bedroom.

I tip-toed across the living room with my trusty baseball bat in hand and found someone going through my dresser.

I have a pretty good swing. So now, I have to sit here and hope that the son of a bitch wakes up.

The Meeting

My meeting with Janet was brief, friendly, and maddening.

It was tough on me. I really couldn't let on that I had no memory of whatever I was doing before the break-in, but she somehow needed to know that everything wasn't going as smoothly as it was two weeks ago. Whatever "it" is.

Janet approached me with a kiss on the cheek which was more sisterly than anything else. This was immediately clarified by the few times she referred to herself as my "sister", though I couldn't immediately ascertain if she meant it in the blood sense or in the "we're in this together" sense.

Either way, she knew something was up and arrived with an envelope of cash, a swip card, and a statement: "Tell me you still have the CD."

"Of course I do...you mean *this* one??"

I showed her the one I found in the false bottom of the desk drawer.

"Quit screwing around, Michael."

She told me that the cash and the swipe card were what she was to give me "in case this happened". "This", I assume, is the rather rude intrusion of a couple of weeks ago.

Not sure how she knew of "this" specifically, but she did.

She was very worried that she was followed, so she kept her visit brief. Much more brief than I was hoping, since I wasn't able to gleen too much information from her.

"What's the swipe card for?" I asked her.

She became rather annoyed before giving way to concern and asking if I was sure I was all right. "You're sure you weren't here when this happened?" she asked.

"Nope. I was out. Crazy thing to come home to, let me tell..."

She interrupted me by frantic scribbling on a piece of paper which she ripped out of a notebook with a tortured sound.

"You really need to be more organized, Michael. Go here."

The piece of paper bore an address I was unfamiliar with.

I objected, more to get more information from her than to really express my doubts about the plan, but was again cut off by Janet.

She was stern, exasperated, caring, and sympathetic all at once. She left the apartment but not before turning around and simply saying:

"Do it, Michael."

The Countdown

In a mere few hours, Janet will arrive at my door. I have this feeling like I should have a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a baseball bat in the other, just in case.

I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't anxious. I've had this exact feeling before. I just can't place when or why.

I can't come right out and tell her I don't remember anything, but I need to try and get as much information from her as possible without getting her suspicions up.

Oh, and I am doing laundry today. Just because I can't remember shit doesn't mean I like walking around in dirty underwear!

If this is my last post, it's either that she finished the job the others started or keeping this up isn't good for my immediate survival, based on what I can gleen from Janet.

We'll see.