I staggered out of the back bedroom, feeling for all the world like I was about to explode. Either from the feeling that I was about to vomit or from the feeling in my head where I'd been hit. Probably both of those things were a factor, it is hard sometimes to keep track of what's going on in a moment like this one I found myself deep into.
After some time, it occurred to me that I could not quite remember how long it had been since I heard any screaming or those other, more frightening sounds that had been coming from the back bedroom, where Bubba Hightops was presently about his own business, I supposed.
When I finally turned, after carefully weighing my options and balancing my desire to run full speed away with the desire to see who was still standing in that bedroom, all I could see was Bubba Hightops himself and alone standing behind me with a wicked evil grin on his blood-smeared face and what looked to be like more fingers in his hand than he had on his own personal self's hand.
He also seemed right pleased with himself and I didn't want to ask questions right then. I was busy trying not to bleed on the carpet. Or vomit on it. I was raised better than all that.
We left the house, quietly, wondering what was in that bag that them two fellows had been very against us taking away with. Bubba felt certain it was gold, or - if not something of monetary value - certainly something more tangible to some of his more, well, earthly pursuits.
Presently, we stumbled upon Quiet Simon. He had apparently found his way down from where he had left him, which as you recall was unconscious by the front porch of the Jones house on the hill around the far bend, and he was mighty glad to see us. It turns out the Joneses have a rather nasty attitude towards even shy people like Simon sleeping near their porch. They also breed angry dogs.
So, Quiet Simon, Bubba, and I slipped back into the night. I still couldn't quite figure what I was more concerned about: what was in that bag we had just stolen from those fellows back there or what plans Bubba had for those fingers he was still clutching like presents from one of them carnivals that blow through town just often enough to make you forget how much you hate them.