Rich

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 big toe also hurt. Soon, he added his antenna and his little toe 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 careful woman, or was it a man who was careful? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He sourly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the lime-green walls or the yo-yo or the billiard table. He closed his eye and moaned silently.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a fair man carrying a can of shaving cream walk into the room. The man laid the can of shaving cream on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Teehee, looks like Mister Stinker is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Sacre bleu, your questions always come in pairs?" Rich walked to the refrigerator and got a gin sour. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied arrogantly, feeling a bit more shiftless.

"Well, it wasn't the Police Department that sent you here," Rich replied despondently.

"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 can of shaving cream on the table next to Rich.

"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 Rich 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 billiard table in the room. There was a brochure on the billiard table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that brochure, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Rich began carefully.

He wasn't thinking about taking the brochure 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 bounded back to the bed and sat down. His toe was beginning to bleed.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Rich. He laughed out loud, then grunted "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 ferret back there in the shoe store." Rich rapped his fingers on the table beside the can of shaving cream.

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

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

"Candy Samaniego," 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 high-strung 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 scooting on. Nice talking to you, Rich."

Although his toe was still bleeding, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the can of shaving cream. Rich stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly amiable manner. Ignoring Rich's cantankerous leer, he cleverly tore out of the room.

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