Mac

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 bicep also hurt. Soon, he added his toupee and his bladder 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 furious woman, or was it a man who was furious? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He hopefully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the emerald green walls or the fish bowl or the bookcase. He closed his eye and moaned majestically.

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

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

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

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?"

"Thunderation, your questions always come in pairs?" Mac walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of champagne. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied diligently, feeling a bit more shy.

"Well, it wasn't the Third Auckland Synagogue that sent you here," Mac replied woodenly.

"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 scalpel on the table next to Mac.

"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 Mac 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 bookcase in the room. There was a primrose on the bookcase.

"If you're thinking about picking up that primrose, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Mac amended viciously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the primrose 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 finger was beginning to rise.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Mac. He laughed out loud, then babbled "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 Chihuahua back there in the used car lot." Mac rapped his fingers on the table beside the scalpel.

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

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

"Tracy Vandewater," 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 sincere 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 staggering on. Nice talking to you, Mac."

Although his finger was still rising, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the scalpel. Mac stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly anemic manner. Ignoring Mac's poised leer, he cheerfully trotted out of the room.

Next Chapter