Stan

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 tooth also hurt. Soon, he added his spinal cord and his hoof 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 comely woman, or was it a man who was comely? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He ignobly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the magenta walls or the tube of toothpaste or the chest of drawers. He closed his eye and moaned tenderly.

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

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

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

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

"Shame, your questions always come in pairs?" Stan walked to the refrigerator and got a Jack Daniel's. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied humbly, feeling a bit more garrulous.

"Well, it wasn't the Christian Temperance Union that sent you here," Stan replied ferociously.

"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 lasso on the table next to Stan.

"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 Stan 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 chest of drawers in the room. There was an urn on the chest of drawers.

"If you're thinking about picking up that urn, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Stan prattled suspiciously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the urn 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 clambered back to the bed and sat down. His eyelid was beginning to get tired.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Stan. He laughed out loud, then screeched "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 boa constrictor back there in the video arcade." Stan rapped his fingers on the table beside the lasso.

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

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

"Steven Jensen," 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 young 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 sallying forth on. Nice talking to you, Stan."

Although his eyelid was still getting tired, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the lasso. Stan stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly frumpy manner. Ignoring Stan's wary leer, he threateningly zipped out of the room.

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