Morton

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 knuckle and his cheek 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 difficult woman, or was it a man who was difficult? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He temperamentally squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the red walls or the key ring or the end table. He closed his eye and moaned timidly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a scruffy man carrying a bad breath walk into the room. The man laid the bad breath on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Is that a fact, looks like Mister Hell-raiser is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Dang, your questions always come in pairs?" Morton walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of fruit punch. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied crazily, feeling a bit more idiotic.

"Well, it wasn't the Church of Saint Gabriel that sent you here," Morton replied wildly.

"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 bad breath on the table next to Morton.

"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 Morton 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 end table in the room. There was a file folder on the end table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that file folder, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Morton blustered daintily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the file folder 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 whirled back to the bed and sat down. His wrist was beginning to turn red.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Morton. He laughed out loud, then whimpered "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 lemur back there in the gift shop." Morton rapped his fingers on the table beside the bad breath.

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

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

"Reba Gonzalez," 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 bubbly 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 staggering on. Nice talking to you, Morton."

Although his wrist was still turning red, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the bad breath. Morton stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly rude manner. Ignoring Morton's adorable leer, he gleefully rushed out of the room.

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