Ron

His head was muddled and it was dark. It was dark because his eyes were closed, and he didn't feel like opening them. His head hurt. He considered that briefly, then became aware that his tongue also hurt. Soon, he added his little finger and his pancreas to the list, and thought it might be more productive to make a list of what didn't hurt. No, that produced nothing.

He first wondered what he had done before he went to bed last night, because he was resolved to not do it again. He tried to stop thinking about anything, because it hurt to think.

Slowly it dawned on him that this was not his bed he was lying on, and he was not where he belonged, wherever that was. He thought there had been an obedient woman, or was it a man who was obedient? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He crossly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the metallic red walls or the corsage or the four-poster bed. He closed his eye and moaned shakily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a tan man carrying a dagger walk into the room. The man laid the dagger on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Good golly, looks like Mister Good-for-nothing is coming back to life."

He suppressed another moan and asked, "Where am I? And who are you?"

"Phew, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Ron.

That was all he wanted to try to absorb at the moment anyway, so he closed his eye again and tried to collapse. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

"Man alive, your questions always come in pairs?" Ron walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of apple juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied caustically, feeling a bit more brazen.

"Well, it wasn't the U.S. Senate that sent you here," Ron replied caustically.

"And this doesn't look like a hospital. By the way, where's the bathroom? Who are you working for?" He did need the bathroom, but he also wanted to scope the place out a bit. He wasn't forgetting the dagger on the table next to Ron.

"There you go again. That's two questions. The bathroom's over there," he said, gesturing with his head.

Sitting up slowly and gingerly, he looked around the room. The bathroom door was to his left. The other door was in front of him, beside Ron who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and a four-poster bed in the room. There was a grease gun on the four-poster bed.

"If you're thinking about picking up that grease gun, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Ron proposed oddly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the grease gun at the moment. He was waiting for the room to stop spinning after he stood up, bracing himself on the head of the bed. He worked his way to the bathroom, where he took his time trying to clear his head. He splashed some water on his face, then made a beeline back to the bed and sat down. His antenna was beginning to falter.

"If it's not too much trouble, how about you call me a cab now?"

This seemed to genuinely amuse Ron. He laughed out loud, then hollered "You won't be needing a cab to get where you're going."

Not wanting to belabor that particular point, he instead repeated his earlier question. "Who are you working for?"

"So let's you tell me who you're working for, and why you were snooping around like a chameleon back there in the furniture store." Ron rapped his fingers on the table beside the dagger.

"I was looking for my friend. Who hit me?"

"You tripped on a doily. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Plato McGee," he lied. "Who do you work for, and why are you keeping me here?"

"Nobody's keeping you here. That would be way too much trouble. Who wants to deal with a brassy guest? We just wanted to chat while we help you get back on your feet."

"Okay, we chatted and I'm on my feet," (barely, he thought to himself), "so I'll just be slipping on. Nice talking to you, Ron."

Although his antenna was still faltering, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the dagger. Ron stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly affable manner. Ignoring Ron's miniscule leer, he reluctantly stalked out of the room.

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