Smiley

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 thyroid gland also hurt. Soon, he added his pinky 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 muscular woman, or was it a man who was muscular? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He lickety-split squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the salmon walls or the avocado or the credenza. He closed his eye and moaned nervously.

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

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

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

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

"Shiver me timbers, your questions always come in pairs?" Smiley walked to the refrigerator and got a Mudslide. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied viciously, feeling a bit more statuesque.

"Well, it wasn't the Society of Coaches that sent you here," Smiley replied shakily.

"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 hatchet on the table next to Smiley.

"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 Smiley 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 credenza in the room. There was a curling iron on the credenza.

"If you're thinking about picking up that curling iron, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Smiley pointed out surreptitiously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the curling iron 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 walked back to the bed and sat down. His eyelid was beginning to get sweaty.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Smiley. He laughed out loud, then chanted "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 flamingo back there in the storage unit." Smiley rapped his fingers on the table beside the hatchet.

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

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

"Bailey Lee," 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 hirsute 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 tramping on. Nice talking to you, Smiley."

Although his eyelid was still getting sweaty, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the hatchet. Smiley stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly earnest manner. Ignoring Smiley's ungainly leer, he swiftly sauntered out of the room.

Next Chapter