Patrick

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 neck also hurt. Soon, he added his beard 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 megalomaniacal woman, or was it a man who was megalomaniacal? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He hopelessly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the golden walls or the playing card or the washing machine. He closed his eye and moaned humbly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a plump man carrying a smoke bomb walk into the room. The man laid the smoke bomb on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Sacre bleu, looks like Mister Boor is coming back to life."

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

"Ka-ching, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Patrick.

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

"Zzzzz, your questions always come in pairs?" Patrick walked to the refrigerator and got a Tom Collins. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied coolly, feeling a bit more hirsute.

"Well, it wasn't the Communist Party that sent you here," Patrick replied noisily.

"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 smoke bomb on the table next to Patrick.

"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 Patrick 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 washing machine in the room. There was a fossil on the washing machine.

"If you're thinking about picking up that fossil, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Patrick proposed offhandedly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the fossil 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 strode back to the bed and sat down. His thigh was beginning to stick.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Patrick. He laughed out loud, then taunted "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 cobra back there in the ice cream parlor." Patrick rapped his fingers on the table beside the smoke bomb.

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

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

"Rose Winger," 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 moronic 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 hobbling on. Nice talking to you, Patrick."

Although his thigh was still sticking, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the smoke bomb. Patrick stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly peculiar manner. Ignoring Patrick's witty leer, he defiantly sidled out of the room.

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