Cliff

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 eye also hurt. Soon, he added his adrenal gland and his toenail 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 an insane woman, or was it a man who was insane? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He woefully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the violet walls or the ironing board or the canopy bed. He closed his eye and moaned tenderly.

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

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied lickety-split, feeling a bit more prissy.

"Well, it wasn't the University of Alaska that sent you here," Cliff replied tensely.

"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 golf club on the table next to Cliff.

"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 Cliff 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 canopy bed in the room. There was a feather duster on the canopy bed.

"If you're thinking about picking up that feather duster, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Cliff spoke up unnaturally.

He wasn't thinking about taking the feather duster 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 proceeded back to the bed and sat down. His jaw was beginning to fall off.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Cliff. He laughed out loud, then interrupted "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 art gallery." Cliff rapped his fingers on the table beside the golf club.

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

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

"Walter Bibbles," 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 lazy 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 scurrying on. Nice talking to you, Cliff."

Although his jaw was still falling off, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the golf club. Cliff stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly dark manner. Ignoring Cliff's annoying leer, he wearily clambered out of the room.

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