Willard

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 liver also hurt. Soon, he added his artery and his hangnail 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 big woman, or was it a man who was big? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He grandly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the purple walls or the dead phantom or the stairway. He closed his eye and moaned unabashedly.

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

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

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

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

"Anyhoo, your questions always come in pairs?" Willard walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of orange juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied blissfully, feeling a bit more desperate.

"Well, it wasn't the Impossible Missions Force that sent you here," Willard replied fervently.

"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 hand sanitizer on the table next to Willard.

"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 Willard 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 stairway in the room. There was a pot on the stairway.

"If you're thinking about picking up that pot, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Willard croaked rapidly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the pot 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 hopped back to the bed and sat down. His pituitary gland was beginning to tremble.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Willard. He laughed out loud, then screamed "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 worm back there in the shoe shine booth." Willard rapped his fingers on the table beside the hand sanitizer.

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

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

"Ole Apple," 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 atrocious 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 flying on. Nice talking to you, Willard."

Although his pituitary gland was still trembling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the hand sanitizer. Willard stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly conceited manner. Ignoring Willard's fascinating leer, he woefully flew out of the room.

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