James awoke to a splitting headache.
He gauged his next action carefully, as he didn't really want to anything to further stimulate sensory perception, which, he reflected, he had rather too much of at the moment, thank you. He decided on a small, whimpery moan, which did little to alleviate the sensation of a merry psychopath having his way on the interior of his cranium with a sledgehammer, but, he thought, was fairly effective in expressing his current mental state.
"something's wrong..."
He briefly considered all the possible disadvantages and advantages of opening his eyes. After concluding that no good could possibly come of it, he instead tried to piece together from memory the chain of events that had led, apparently, to several strangers simultaneously performing an energetic Irish jig on his head while he had been unconscious on the floor
"oh no... oh, damn it to the ninth circle..."
Speaking of which, how had he come to be unconscious on the floor in the first place? All he could recall was wandering into a new pub he'd never seen before, ordering a drink, and sitting down to enjoy it quietly at his table. It had only been one, hadn't it? Or was there something... else in it? Some of his fellow patrons did look a bit dodgy, upon recollection. There had been a distinct flash of violet... blunt trauma?
"oi, you there, you... er, what was it? ...ah, James! James, open your eyes and stand up! We need to talk."
James finally felt the need to lie down and resume unconsciousness superseded by a need to work out exactly what was going on. With another whimper, he opened his eyes and tried to push himself to his feet. And he did indeed feel himself stagger to a standing position, but to his mild concern, his point of view (a lovely vista comprised primarily of murky floorboards) didn't seem to change at all. He tried to push himself up again, only to be rewarded with the distinct sensation of falling over and clattering painfully into a few tables and chair, but only from the neck down.
"ah, yes, look, this is the awkward bit... Sorry to be the one to have to break it to you mate, but you've been, er, decapitated."
James' concern suddenly became a good deal less mild.
"now look here! if you'll stop screeching like a little girl and pull yourself—I mean, if for a moment you can just keep your head—ah, bloody hell"
He took a deep breath, too ready to let out another piercing shriek, but all that came out was a third whimper.
"d'you think perhaps you're not getting much mileage out of that response? I can tell you it hasn't solved many of your problems so far. Far be it from me to intrude at all, but you might try asking for a bit of help. You're really making an unnecessary scene."
Resolving to leave aside the mystery of who or what this intrusive voice in his head was and focus on one problem at a time—
"that's the spirit, mate"
—he waved his hand, from wherever it currently happened to be in the room, he had no idea, and feebly said "Could I get some help over here?"
