Wesley

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 hair also hurt. Soon, he added his gut 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 resolute woman, or was it a man who was resolute? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He majestically squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the chocolate brown walls or the advertisement or the end table. He closed his eye and moaned victoriously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a large 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. "Get outta here, looks like Mister Clown is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Beshrew me, your questions always come in pairs?" Wesley walked to the refrigerator and got a cambric tea. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied sleepily, feeling a bit more muddled.

"Well, it wasn't the Audubon Society that sent you here," Wesley replied speedily.

"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 Wesley.

"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 Wesley who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and an end table in the room. There was a button on the end table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that button, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Wesley mumbled nicely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the button 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 staggered back to the bed and sat down. His bladder was beginning to blanch.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Wesley. He laughed out loud, then sighed "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 mare back there in the gift shop." Wesley rapped his fingers on the table beside the silver bullet.

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

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

"Louis Van Hook," 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 playful 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 skipping on. Nice talking to you, Wesley."

Although his bladder was still blanching, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the silver bullet. Wesley stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly sarcastic manner. Ignoring Wesley's gallant leer, he quickly rolled out of the room.

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