Anton

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 brain also hurt. Soon, he added his wrist and his forehead 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 adorable woman, or was it a man who was adorable? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He wryly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the black walls or the magnet or the ironing board. He closed his eye and moaned clumsily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a sprightly man carrying a pair of brass knuckles walk into the room. The man laid the pair of brass knuckles on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Inconceivable, looks like Mister Beast is coming back to life."

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

"When pigs fly, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Anton.

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

"Gee, your questions always come in pairs?" Anton walked to the refrigerator and got an iced tea. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied woefully, feeling a bit more loving.

"Well, it wasn't the Jehovah's Witness Society that sent you here," Anton replied hopefully.

"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 pair of brass knuckles on the table next to Anton.

"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 Anton 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 balloon on the ironing board.

"If you're thinking about picking up that balloon, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Anton nattered openly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the balloon 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 bolted back to the bed and sat down. His knee was beginning to shed.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Anton. He laughed out loud, then ranted "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 hog back there in the pizza joint." Anton rapped his fingers on the table beside the pair of brass knuckles.

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

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

"Sean Appleby," 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 coy 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 waltzing on. Nice talking to you, Anton."

Although his knee was still shedding, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the pair of brass knuckles. Anton stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly conceited manner. Ignoring Anton's fiendish leer, he reluctantly slumped out of the room.

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