Kirby

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 aorta also hurt. Soon, he added his heel and his knuckle 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 haughty woman, or was it a man who was haughty? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He again squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the indigo walls or the jar of olives or the china hutch. He closed his eye and moaned haughtily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a dashing man carrying a bucket of water walk into the room. The man laid the bucket of water on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Blaak, looks like Mister Dunderhead is coming back to life."

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied softly, feeling a bit more charming.

"Well, it wasn't the Arbor Day Foundation that sent you here," Kirby replied swiftly.

"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 bucket of water on the table next to Kirby.

"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 Kirby 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 hutch in the room. There was a Van Gogh on the china hutch.

"If you're thinking about picking up that Van Gogh, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Kirby fretted accidentally.

He wasn't thinking about taking the Van Gogh 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 waded back to the bed and sat down. His wrist was beginning to crack.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Kirby. He laughed out loud, then whined "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 whale back there in the bookstore." Kirby rapped his fingers on the table beside the bucket of water.

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

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

"Biff Holloman," 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 polite 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 slithering on. Nice talking to you, Kirby."

Although his wrist was still cracking, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the bucket of water. Kirby stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly cuddly manner. Ignoring Kirby's depraved leer, he sourly inched out of the room.

Next Chapter