"Of course, of course! Why not! The day I figure out I can leave and find the real target, I get this shit landed on me!" he muttered spitefully as he knocked open the door to his room, gathering up whatever he had foolishly taken out of his pack to carry with him. Several things were going to be left behind. Food, the occasional knickknack he had managed to pick up in the market for a pittance, the Daring Doo book he had managed to purchase on the sly. Shame, he was just getting to the good part, as far as good could be applied to such schlock. I mean, Daring getting up and singlehandedly fighting off five goons with two broken front legs and a wing that was currently suffering some kind of petrification curse? Handy called bullshit. The author was off her rocker if she expected people to swallow that. Still, Handy always did have a weakness for terrible fiction.