Muerto

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 heel also hurt. Soon, he added his dignity and his aorta 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 rude woman, or was it a man who was rude? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He kindly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the forest green walls or the urn or the water bed. He closed his eye and moaned cheerfully.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a tiny man carrying a ghetto blaster walk into the room. The man laid the ghetto blaster on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Hello, looks like Mister Doofus is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Meh, your questions always come in pairs?" Muerto walked to the refrigerator and got a Mountain Dew. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied glumly, feeling a bit more crazy.

"Well, it wasn't the Communist Party that sent you here," Muerto replied fondly.

"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 ghetto blaster on the table next to Muerto.

"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 Muerto 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 water bed in the room. There was a radio on the water bed.

"If you're thinking about picking up that radio, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Muerto growled kindly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the radio 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 loped back to the bed and sat down. His chest was beginning to shine.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Muerto. He laughed out loud, then pleaded "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 aardvark back there in the movie theater." Muerto rapped his fingers on the table beside the ghetto blaster.

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

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

"Angie Hook," 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 weary 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, Muerto."

Although his chest was still shining, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the ghetto blaster. Muerto stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly clever manner. Ignoring Muerto's conscientious leer, he sourly sped out of the room.

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