Michaelangelo

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 little toe also hurt. Soon, he added his neck and his carotid artery 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 melancholic woman, or was it a man who was melancholic? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He grudgingly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the beige walls or the Helmholz resonator or the pool table. He closed his eye and moaned strangely.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a brown-eyed man carrying an accordion walk into the room. The man laid the accordion on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Barf, looks like Mister Tattletale is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Nice, your questions always come in pairs?" Michaelangelo 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 bravely, feeling a bit more furry.

"Well, it wasn't the Fraternal Order of Raccoons that sent you here," Michaelangelo replied clumsily.

"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 accordion on the table next to Michaelangelo.

"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 Michaelangelo 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 pool table in the room. There was a washrag on the pool table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that washrag, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Michaelangelo interrupted unexpectedly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the washrag 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 strolled back to the bed and sat down. His lip was beginning to wander.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Michaelangelo. He laughed out loud, then gasped "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 porcupine back there in the furniture store." Michaelangelo rapped his fingers on the table beside the accordion.

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

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

"Anatoly Giddings," 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 friendly 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 marching on. Nice talking to you, Michaelangelo."

Although his lip was still wandering, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the accordion. Michaelangelo stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly enthusiastic manner. Ignoring Michaelangelo's bizarre leer, he angrily bolted out of the room.

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