Beelzebub

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 hair and his kidney 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 disorganized woman, or was it a man who was disorganized? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He tenderly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the chocolate brown walls or the mop or the display case. He closed his eye and moaned pitifully.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a sprightly man carrying a pair of bare hands walk into the room. The man laid the pair of bare hands on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Jeepers creepers, looks like Mister Shrimp is coming back to life."

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

"Son of a Baptist preacher, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Beelzebub.

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

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

"What accident?" he replied shakily, feeling a bit more merry.

"Well, it wasn't the Daughters of the American Revolution that sent you here," Beelzebub replied proudly.

"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 pair of bare hands on the table next to Beelzebub.

"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 Beelzebub 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 display case in the room. There was a muffin on the display case.

"If you're thinking about picking up that muffin, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Beelzebub decided impatiently.

He wasn't thinking about taking the muffin 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 piehole was beginning to line up.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Beelzebub. He laughed out loud, then indicated "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 gecko back there in the used car lot." Beelzebub rapped his fingers on the table beside the pair of bare hands.

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

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

"Randall Franklin," 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 spindly 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 tiptoeing on. Nice talking to you, Beelzebub."

Although his piehole was still lining up, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the pair of bare hands. Beelzebub stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly ungainly manner. Ignoring Beelzebub's sinister leer, he strictly strolled out of the room.

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