Solomon

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 toenail also hurt. Soon, he added his little finger and his hand 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 mindless woman, or was it a man who was mindless? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He dolorously squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the azure walls or the notebook or the bunk bed. He closed his eye and moaned truculently.

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

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

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

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

"Yep, your questions always come in pairs?" Solomon walked to the refrigerator and got a Moscow mule. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied oddly, feeling a bit more monstrous.

"Well, it wasn't the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster that sent you here," Solomon replied recklessly.

"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 pop gun on the table next to Solomon.

"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 Solomon 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 bunk bed in the room. There was a chart on the bunk bed.

"If you're thinking about picking up that chart, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Solomon recited slyly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the chart 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 scampered back to the bed and sat down. His pituitary gland was beginning to get stiff.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Solomon. He laughed out loud, then squealed "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 an elephant back there in the brewery." Solomon rapped his fingers on the table beside the pop gun.

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

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

"Brad Deng," 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 an obnoxious 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 breezing on. Nice talking to you, Solomon."

Although his pituitary gland was still getting stiff, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the pop gun. Solomon stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly angry manner. Ignoring Solomon's rapacious leer, he perkily stormed out of the room.

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