Mason

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 buttocks also hurt. Soon, he added his spine and his arm 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 masculine woman, or was it a man who was masculine? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He sympathetically squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the olive green walls or the ruler or the safe. He closed his eye and moaned ruefully.

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

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

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

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

"My gosh, your questions always come in pairs?" Mason walked to the refrigerator and got a fruit smoothie. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied viciously, feeling a bit more spunky.

"Well, it wasn't the CIA that sent you here," Mason replied unnaturally.

"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 shotgun on the table next to Mason.

"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 Mason 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 safe in the room. There was a hot potato on the safe.

"If you're thinking about picking up that hot potato, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Mason sobbed effortlessly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the hot potato 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 galumphed back to the bed and sat down. His stomach was beginning to grow pale.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Mason. He laughed out loud, then judged "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 jellyfish back there in the travel agency." Mason rapped his fingers on the table beside the shotgun.

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

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

"Ollie Phillips," 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 frantic 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 stalking on. Nice talking to you, Mason."

Although his stomach was still growing pale, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the shotgun. Mason stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly amiable manner. Ignoring Mason's grizzled leer, he daringly sailed out of the room.

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