Abe

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 dignity also hurt. Soon, he added his gall bladder and his thorax 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 vile woman, or was it a man who was vile? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He deftly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the orange walls or the biscuit or the hammock. He closed his eye and moaned tearfully.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a slender man carrying a grenade launcher walk into the room. The man laid the grenade launcher on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "OMG, looks like Mister Hellhound is coming back to life."

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

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

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?"

"Holy minerva, your questions always come in pairs?" Abe walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of champagne. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied carefully, feeling a bit more hungry.

"Well, it wasn't the American Association of Costume designers that sent you here," Abe replied surreptitiously.

"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 grenade launcher on the table next to Abe.

"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 Abe 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 hammock in the room. There was a computer on the hammock.

"If you're thinking about picking up that computer, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Abe declaimed confidently.

He wasn't thinking about taking the computer 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 zoomed back to the bed and sat down. His shin was beginning to unravel.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Abe. He laughed out loud, then added "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 airedale back there in the bike shop." Abe rapped his fingers on the table beside the grenade launcher.

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

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

"Craig Henry," 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 relaxed 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 hobbling on. Nice talking to you, Abe."

Although his shin was still unraveling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the grenade launcher. Abe stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly jaunty manner. Ignoring Abe's cruel leer, he lazily waltzed out of the room.

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