Lifting the bottle of Ny-Quil to his lips, Roger quickly downed the entire contents. Considering this a good thing and a job well done, he just made it back to the bathroom in time to collapse, unconscious, into the bathtub.

It was anyone's guess as to whether he was hurt at all by the sudden impact against the hard tub. Roger was too dead to the world to have noticed a stampeding herd of pink elephants craming into the small room and stopping to dance the lambada, or assign points for the random nonsense of it all.

No, Roger was in a blissful state of dreamless, over-the-counter unconsciousness.

And it was because of that that Mr. Hand smiled. An evil smile. As evil a smile as a hand could smile.

Because Mr. Hand had planned it all.

Roger, having just woken up, was too groggy yet to notice one of his hands acting a bit more of its own accord. He had, in fact, not realized that the bottle of Ny-Quil one of his hands held was not the bottle of barbeque sause he had originally planned to have for breakfast.

Just to start the day off right with a dash of weirdness.

And he had not thought anything of the sudden desire to curl right back into the bathtub with his faithful companions, Fluffy and Pepe.

Because of that, Mr. Hand was now in charge.

And now all his hard work and planning would pay off.

First he had struck a deal with Roger's feet, unbeknownst to him. They had agreed to carry him anywhere he needed to go while Roger was unconscious.

In return, their toenails would be trimmed and they would get a new, fresh pair of socks. The nice kind, that breathed and had the fuzzy insides.

Once his plans were in motion, Mr. Hand assured them, The Feet would have as many toenail trims and breathing fuzzy socks as they wanted.

That had been the easy part.

The next step had been to wait for Roger's roommates to be gone for an extended period of time. A surprisingly long wait.

They seemed to spend an unusual amount of time around Roger, for reasons Mr. Hand couldn't fathom. It was almost as if they...liked him. Something Mr. Hand found hard to believe.

He was a part of Roger's body and he could only barely tolerate the eyeless blond.

But, eventually, Mr. Hand's patience had paid off.

During their current break from tests and studying and assorted other tasks given to them by incredibly sadistic bastards, Mike and Dave, both, had things to occupy their time and take them out of town.

Mike had been commanded to visit his family, under penalty of things too cruel and unusual to even mention without going stark raving mad. Dave had gotten off slightly better when Margaret, in a surprising fit of niceness, had invited him to a gun show with her. The only requirement had been that he help carry her ammo.

Dave didn't plan to walk upright any time soon.

With Roger's roomies thus disposed, and The Feet willing and eager to do his bidding, Mr. Hand had only to ditch Roger.

His consciousness, at least.

And that had been handled beautifully with the Ny-Quil.

Today a body, tomorrow...the world! Mr. Hand thought triumphantly as he wiggled out from under Roger.

Wiggled out from under...

Damn, he was heavier than he looked.

Just a little...Maybe left some? No...up!..twist some, then wiggle and...

...and...

Securely trapped underneath Roger's snoring, unconscious form, Mr. Hand cursed his luck that Roger had fallen on top of him when the Ny-Quil took effect.

You've won this round, dead weight. But next time...next time...