Phil

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 gall bladder also hurt. Soon, he added his scalp and his piehole 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 crafty woman, or was it a man who was crafty? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He suddenly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the lime-green walls or the can of shaving cream or the washing machine. He closed his eye and moaned impatiently.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see an obese man carrying a butcher knife walk into the room. The man laid the butcher knife on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Shhh, looks like Mister Imposter 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 Phil.

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

"Shiver me timbers, your questions always come in pairs?" Phil walked to the refrigerator and got a grape soda. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied impatiently, feeling a bit more queer.

"Well, it wasn't the Jehovah's Witness Society that sent you here," Phil replied warmly.

"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 butcher knife on the table next to Phil.

"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 Phil 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 washing machine in the room. There was a Helmholz resonator on the washing machine.

"If you're thinking about picking up that Helmholz resonator, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Phil blathered mysteriously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the Helmholz resonator 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 rushed back to the bed and sat down. His abdomen was beginning to oscillate.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Phil. He laughed out loud, then trumpeted "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 computer back there in the bus station." Phil rapped his fingers on the table beside the butcher knife.

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

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

"Ruth Poole," 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 furry 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 galumphing on. Nice talking to you, Phil."

Although his abdomen was still oscillating, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the butcher knife. Phil stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly shy manner. Ignoring Phil's happy leer, he later pranced out of the room.

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