Mickey

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 piehole and his tongue 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 brave woman, or was it a man who was brave? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He uselessly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the jade walls or the paper towel or the display case. He closed his eye and moaned fervently.

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

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied nicely, feeling a bit more considerate.

"Well, it wasn't the Fifth Vancouver Synagogue that sent you here," Mickey replied valiantly.

"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 silver bullet on the table next to Mickey.

"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 Mickey 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 fire hose on the display case.

"If you're thinking about picking up that fire hose, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Mickey blubbered urgently.

He wasn't thinking about taking the fire hose 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 blundered back to the bed and sat down. His beard was beginning to come undone.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Mickey. He laughed out loud, then requested "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 mink back there in the butcher shop." Mickey rapped his fingers on the table beside the silver bullet.

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

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

"Calvin Hunt," 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 gregarious 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 waddling on. Nice talking to you, Mickey."

Although his beard was still coming undone, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the silver bullet. Mickey stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly crazy manner. Ignoring Mickey's rude leer, he pitifully struggled out of the room.

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