On the screen was a map. And on that map was a little red blipping dot. That dot was X5-599, and Donald Lydecker was closing in.

Well, to say that the Colonel himself was closing in may have been a stretch. In reality he was in a motel room with his leg propped up on two pillows and an ice pack on his ankle. There had been an unfortunate incident with some steps and a very cold Wyoming morning. Normally the pain would have been a mere inconvenience, but it was raining. Wee Donnie didn't like the rain.

"Ineffectual, cretinous halfwits," he grumbled as he watched the little red dot pull further away from the little green triangle. He reached for his phone.

The computer screen went blank...and the bedside lamp turned off...and even the noisy old motel fridge stopped humming.

"Just fucking great."

He rolled his eyes when his phone flashed up no service and looked at his rapidly swelling ankle. A wiggle of his toes told him the ice pack was perhaps not as cold as it should be and he gingerly slid his legs over the side of the bed.

As he opened the refrigerator door the futility of the whole hop-cum-hobble that he had perfected on his way across the room was realized. There was only one ice pack. And to cool the blue plastic pouch that he held in his hand, Donald would need a working refrigerator. He grumbled again, this time some nonsensical garbage about refrigerators running on depleted uranium.

Turning slowly, his shoulders slightly hunched and a look to curdle milk on his usually stoic face, he did the swollen ankle shuffle in the direction of the door not remembering the key card on the bedside table until the last minute.

This time the nonsensical garbage was about landing strips. He had never understood the concept until now...and no not the landing strip you're thinking of...whoops, did I just say that? Narrators aren't supposed to talk to the audience are they? Oh well.

Anyway, as I was saying, it was a dark and stormy night...oh wait, that's another story for another time. Ahem.

So Donald finally managed to get the door open when he remembered the ice bucket. Yes, in two thousand and nine, our favorite nemesis-cum-turncoat is a little forgetful. He blames it on a few hard knocks to the head, but we all know it was the ganja he smoked in the nineties. I digress.

Anyhoo, so Decky-doo finally made it out the door. Yes, he made it out the door with both his key card and his ice bucket in hand (in fact, the key card was in the ice bucket. How smart!). He even managed to fill his bucket with the intended frozen good. Obviously, he forgot to take the little piece of plastic at the bottom out of the bucket first, so there was much expletive laden muttering upon return to the Motel door.

Being winter on the western seaboard (I think the had made it to somewhere in Oregon that day) it was rather windy. And a little wet. So as he cowered outside his motel room door from the icy sideways rain, fishing in his bucket he pondered whether it would be more comfortable to just tip the bucket over his head and be done with it.

And then he was hit with the worst thought of all (yes, even worse than having to see Sandoval in his underwear). The key card was electronic.

His eyes went wide and the rummaging in the bottom of the ice reached a frantic pace, culminating in the bucket being upturned and the offending piece of plastic landing unceremoniously on the porch.

He swiped...and he swiped again....and again...no matter how many times he swiped nothing happened. I don't know why he kept swiping, must have been therapeutic or something.

Eventually Wee Donnie (because we're back to that name as it is used when ice and steps and/or porches are involved) leaned against the door and slid to the ground. He sat huddled against the door, his arms wrapped around his good leg and his not so good leg sticking out into the weather (which had suddenly turned to hail).

At least he didn't need that ice any more.