Clifford

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 eyeball also hurt. Soon, he added his gut and his bicep 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 pigeon-toed woman, or was it a man who was pigeon-toed? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He irritably squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the crimson walls or the African violet or the safe. He closed his eye and moaned haughtily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a smallish man carrying a pom-pom walk into the room. The man laid the pom-pom on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Holy cats, looks like Mister Hipster is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Zowie, your questions always come in pairs?" Clifford 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 briskly, feeling a bit more fashionable.

"Well, it wasn't the Humane Society that sent you here," Clifford replied reluctantly.

"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 pom-pom on the table next to Clifford.

"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 Clifford 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 sack on the safe.

"If you're thinking about picking up that sack, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Clifford implored blankly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the sack 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 hobbled back to the bed and sat down. His fingernail was beginning to rumble.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Clifford. He laughed out loud, then rationalized "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 an android back there in the insurance agency." Clifford rapped his fingers on the table beside the pom-pom.

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

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

"Melanie Ortmann," 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 an energetic 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 rushing on. Nice talking to you, Clifford."

Although his fingernail was still rumbling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the pom-pom. Clifford stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly cruel manner. Ignoring Clifford's maniacal leer, he fiercely reeled out of the room.

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