Lynn

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 knuckle also hurt. Soon, he added his forehead and his front tooth 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 difficult woman, or was it a man who was difficult? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He sourly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the hot pink walls or the baton or the dresser. He closed his eye and moaned warily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a sorrowful man carrying a bottle of Tabasco Sauce walk into the room. The man laid the bottle of Tabasco Sauce on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Congratulations, looks like Mister Psycho is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Weird, your questions always come in pairs?" Lynn walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of apricot juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied cautiously, feeling a bit more careful.

"Well, it wasn't the University of Colorado that sent you here," Lynn replied fearlessly.

"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 bottle of Tabasco Sauce on the table next to Lynn.

"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 Lynn 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 dresser in the room. There was a crystal ball on the dresser.

"If you're thinking about picking up that crystal ball, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Lynn exclaimed truculently.

He wasn't thinking about taking the crystal ball 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 bounced back to the bed and sat down. His hoof was beginning to get scaly.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Lynn. He laughed out loud, then bellowed "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 meerkat back there in the clothing store." Lynn rapped his fingers on the table beside the bottle of Tabasco Sauce.

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

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

"Cecelia Gore," 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 sober 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 leaping on. Nice talking to you, Lynn."

Although his hoof was still getting scaly, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the bottle of Tabasco Sauce. Lynn stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly sanguine manner. Ignoring Lynn's sensible leer, he hopelessly cantered out of the room.

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