Kansas City, Kansas

I've googled a map to make my point. As you can see from the map, Kansas City is one of those places in the world that makes absolutely no fucking sense.

But moving on. Alfonzo dumped us on the outskirts of the City of Lenexa, which is on the outskirts of Kansas City, Kansas. Marjorie took us in the following morning, and when Vlad woke up that afternoon, she drove us into Kansas City to get Vlad's head examined. He had had a mild concussion and, apparently, sustained some damage to the speech centers of his brain (I think they said something about Broca, which I remember hearing about in psych). I guess you should know that I hadn't heard Vlad say anything since the night before, so I was more than a little worried about him. I'm not a scientist, or really any kind of scholar, but I just can't make sense of what happened.

The MRI technician came out to tell Marjorie the results of the scan, and that we had another hour to wait before they would be done with Vlad. About ninety minutes later, Vlad came strutting through the swinging doors, looking, as Marjorie put it, "As fit as a fiddle." She introduced herself properly, because this is the first time he was fully conscious in her presense. Vladimir dropped on one knee, kissed Marge's hand, and said "Thank you, ma'am. Your help is much appreciated."

It's something that the neurologists are calling "Brain Boon"; it's something like winning the lottery, only in terms of brain damage. In many cases, when a person hits their head, they lose some or all of their mental abilities. Sometimes, these abilities slowly come back; other times, they are gone for good. If you hit your head hard enough, parts of your brain get mixed up, and can only sometimes be sorted out again. It makes sense, even if you don't get the science behind it.

But Vlad, and "Brain Boon".... it's just beyond belief. In his case, getting hit on the head by the potato cannon somehow left him better off than he was before. The man of few intelligable words is gone, replaced with a man of great poetry. Imagine me, Alfonzo and Vlad playing a game of Scrabble; Vlad is losing, I'm not doing that well, and Alfonzo is schooling the both of us. Then, in a fit of rage, Alfonzo bangs on the table with his fist and then runs away; only, instead of screwing up the pieces, he leaves Vlad with five triple word scores and a thirst for Shakespearean English.

Ah, crap. I've got to run to class. I'll continue on this, later.

-Chaz