Grant's effort was overeager and short lived. His tumble down the stairs left him bruised and scraped in all the wrong places. All he could do was wish Carl luck as he passed Grant's crumpled body unfazed.
Carl was in the zone, and hardly noticed as he swept past a white disfigured mess at the bottom of the stairs, though he couldn't help but think of two walruses ingesting one another. He fell into a runner's pace, ignoring the familiar slapping and flopping he had long ago become accustomed to. He was nearly there, and was surprised at how easily he could see on such a dark night. He avoided the bothersome pebbles of the road without much effort. As Carl turned his head toward the source of light, his determination crumpled faster than Grant.
If ever there came a time in a young man's life for quick, logical thinking, this was the time for Carl. Quickly from the west, an approaching car was bearing down on him, headlights ablaze. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Carl's head spun and churned like Grant's limp body of bleached flesh cascading down the stairs. At last he had a solution. How he had devised such a genius escape was beyond him. None would doubt his intellect, his reason, his street smarts, after what he now knew would be his shining moment of intellectual redemption.
Carl had acted quickly. The headlights were now upon him, yet he knew the passengers could not see him. Or at least, they would not notice him. You see, Carl found a truck. It was his truck, as far as the people in the car knew. Carl was a chameleon to them. He was no longer a naked man. He was a naked man with a truck. Carl smiled to himself and even chuckled as the car cruised by, unaware of the simple, easy going truck owner, trying to unlock his door. The danger soon passed, and Carl exhaled a sigh of relief. It was smooth sailing back across the street, past albino quasimodo, and up the stairs. Yet again, Carl was victorious. And above all, he had his dignity.