19) I dragged myself out of sleep. From my head to my twisted ankles, I hurt all over. I did not like this room with bars on the windows and door. Foul odors. Puddles of urine. Decay and sweat made the air oily. I am in a jail, I guessed. I could see the shadows of my cell mates, the police. They turned to my stirring self, murmuring in the same damn tongue that has bedeviled me since arriving here. Hands roughly touched me. I heard moaning. It was me. Nothing clears the head like pain. I pulled away from them and against my shackles. They leaned over me and showed me a paper on which it was illustrated that I had been without consciousness from when the little hand was on the six to when the little hand on the eleven. I agreed. So what? They then held up the recovered magazine of Spanish porn I had seen on the beach, and they quickly followed it by an official photo taken of my body just after I had been unlandslided: My zipper was down and there was my organ of regeneration, sad and dusty, being pointed at by a policeman. What a smirk on his face. (I'd like to see his such-and-such after a rockfall!) Now began the wind up, their voices rising in time with accusing fingers pointing. What did they mean? Wait. No! Were they suggesting...? But I'd chased the woman away! That gray fleshy part of me, that modestly wending thing, it doesn't even work! I'd have to be hit by lightning to get it to work! I couldn't explain that to them. I waited for the beating to resume.

There was a terrific roar. The earth began to move. All about me blocks of stone tumbled. The ceiling fell away. Walls crumbled as though it were Jericho itself. The shadows around me were all crushed.

I was miraculously spared. My shackles slipped off my narrow wrists. I found my backpack. I stood up and walked out of what once was a cell. Which is to say, I escaped.
Ahh. Of course. Thank you, Dr. Creep.