John

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 funny bone also hurt. Soon, he added his vein and his thumb 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 dismal woman, or was it a man who was dismal? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He daintily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the polka dotted walls or the pumpkin or the ironing board. He closed his eye and moaned suavely.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a muscular man carrying a switchblade walk into the room. The man laid the switchblade on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Horse feathers, looks like Mister Scalawag is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Who says?, your questions always come in pairs?" John walked to the refrigerator and got a Seven and Seven. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied recklessly, feeling a bit more distressed.

"Well, it wasn't the FBI that sent you here," John replied uselessly.

"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 switchblade on the table next to John.

"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 John who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and an ironing board in the room. There was a carrot on the ironing board.

"If you're thinking about picking up that carrot, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," John added sourly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the carrot 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 barrelled back to the bed and sat down. His pinky was beginning to flare up.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse John. He laughed out loud, then joked "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 an antelope back there in the auto repair shop." John rapped his fingers on the table beside the switchblade.

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

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

"Sinclair Mouse," 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 pigeon-toed 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 leaping on. Nice talking to you, John."

Although his pinky was still flaring up, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the switchblade. John stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly powerful manner. Ignoring John's beautiful leer, he carelessly zipped out of the room.

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