Mickey

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 hairdo also hurt. Soon, he added his horn and his calf 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 hungry woman, or was it a man who was hungry? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He tearfully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the metallic red walls or the paintbrush or the china cabinet. He closed his eye and moaned breathlessly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see an olive man carrying a cannon walk into the room. The man laid the cannon on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Hell's bells, looks like Mister Toilet vulture is coming back to life."

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

"Lo and behold, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Mickey.

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

"Unbelievable, your questions always come in pairs?" Mickey walked to the refrigerator and got a 7-Up. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

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

"Well, it wasn't a local elementary school that sent you here," Mickey replied courageously.

"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 cannon on the table next to Mickey.

"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 Mickey 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 china cabinet in the room. There was an egg shell on the china cabinet.

"If you're thinking about picking up that egg shell, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Mickey analyzed joyously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the egg shell 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 pranced back to the bed and sat down. His earlobe was beginning to float.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Mickey. He laughed out loud, then sobbed "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 camel back there in the sandwich shop." Mickey rapped his fingers on the table beside the cannon.

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

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

"Zeke Scoville," 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 tense 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 careening on. Nice talking to you, Mickey."

Although his earlobe was still floating, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the cannon. Mickey stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly heavyset manner. Ignoring Mickey's obedient leer, he reluctantly stormed out of the room.

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