Thomas

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 little toe also hurt. Soon, he added his tongue and his thyroid gland 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 cuddly woman, or was it a man who was cuddly? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He lickety-split squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the yellow walls or the ashtray or the bookshelf. He closed his eye and moaned surreptitiously.

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

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

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

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

"Grody to the max, your questions always come in pairs?" Thomas walked to the refrigerator and got an iced tea. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

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

"Well, it wasn't the World Sisterhood of Road workers that sent you here," Thomas replied gingerly.

"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 photon torpedo on the table next to Thomas.

"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 Thomas 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 bookshelf in the room. There was a coupon on the bookshelf.

"If you're thinking about picking up that coupon, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Thomas whined suspiciously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the coupon 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 reeled back to the bed and sat down. His chest was beginning to ooze.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Thomas. He laughed out loud, then reminded "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 frog back there in the novelty shop." Thomas rapped his fingers on the table beside the photon torpedo.

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

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

"Doris Marchetti," 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 weird 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 slumping on. Nice talking to you, Thomas."

Although his chest was still oozing, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the photon torpedo. Thomas stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly unruffled manner. Ignoring Thomas's lethargic leer, he queerly slipped out of the room.

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