Jackson

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 gut also hurt. Soon, he added his antenna and his foot 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 moronic woman, or was it a man who was moronic? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He cunningly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the ivory walls or the dish or the ironing board. He closed his eye and moaned warily.

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

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied warily, feeling a bit more self-confident.

"Well, it wasn't the American Medical Association that sent you here," Jackson replied intensely.

"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 dagger on the table next to Jackson.

"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 Jackson 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 ironing board in the room. There was a peanut on the ironing board.

"If you're thinking about picking up that peanut, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Jackson complained irritably.

He wasn't thinking about taking the peanut 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 rushed back to the bed and sat down. His knee was beginning to calcify.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Jackson. He laughed out loud, then drawled "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 tiger back there in the tattoo parlor." Jackson rapped his fingers on the table beside the dagger.

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

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

"Babyface Patterson," 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 megalomaniacal 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 flouncing on. Nice talking to you, Jackson."

Although his knee was still calcifying, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the dagger. Jackson stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly somber manner. Ignoring Jackson's unselfish leer, he positively bounced out of the room.

Next Chapter