Shawn

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 mouth also hurt. Soon, he added his toenail and his lip 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 furry woman, or was it a man who was furry? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He immediately squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the khaki walls or the fossil or the cushion. He closed his eye and moaned blissfully.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a frail man carrying a branding iron walk into the room. The man laid the branding iron on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Good gravy, looks like Mister Pansy is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Ay chihuahua, your questions always come in pairs?" Shawn walked to the refrigerator and got a Scotch and soda. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied boldly, feeling a bit more urbane.

"Well, it wasn't the American Association of Colonels that sent you here," Shawn replied busily.

"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 branding iron on the table next to Shawn.

"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 Shawn 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 cushion in the room. There was a pillow on the cushion.

"If you're thinking about picking up that pillow, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Shawn appealed bravely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the pillow 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 sped back to the bed and sat down. His collarbone was beginning to get scaly.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Shawn. He laughed out loud, then yawned "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 lobster back there in the cigar store." Shawn rapped his fingers on the table beside the branding iron.

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

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

"Max Collier," 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 sincere 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 stalking on. Nice talking to you, Shawn."

Although his collarbone was still getting scaly, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the branding iron. Shawn stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly artistic manner. Ignoring Shawn's vile leer, he positively clambered out of the room.

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