Gilmo

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 belly also hurt. Soon, he added his midriff and his wrist 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 a gentle woman, or was it a man who was gentle? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He thankfully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the brilliant orange walls or the doily or the four-poster bed. He closed his eye and moaned awkwardly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a haggard man carrying a blow pipe walk into the room. The man laid the blow pipe on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Well, looks like Mister Punk is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Malarkey, your questions always come in pairs?" Gilmo walked to the refrigerator and got a tequila sunrise. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied threateningly, feeling a bit more moody.

"Well, it wasn't the National Association of Matadors that sent you here," Gilmo replied breathlessly.

"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 blow pipe on the table next to Gilmo.

"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 Gilmo 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 statue on the four-poster bed.

"If you're thinking about picking up that statue, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Gilmo rebutted patiently.

He wasn't thinking about taking the statue 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 marched back to the bed and sat down. His toe was beginning to crumble.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Gilmo. He laughed out loud, then admitted "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 burro back there in the flower shop." Gilmo rapped his fingers on the table beside the blow pipe.

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

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

"Henry Wyse," 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 noble 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 rushing on. Nice talking to you, Gilmo."

Although his toe was still crumbling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the blow pipe. Gilmo stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly distressed manner. Ignoring Gilmo's atrocious leer, he uneasily galloped out of the room.

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