Ken

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 back also hurt. Soon, he added his skull and his Achilles tendon 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 fearless woman, or was it a man who was fearless? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He lovingly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the blue walls or the Bunsen burner or the chest of drawers. He closed his eye and moaned lightly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a cute man carrying a Colt 45 walk into the room. The man laid the Colt 45 on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Bless your heart, looks like Mister Troublemaker is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Lordy, your questions always come in pairs?" Ken walked to the refrigerator and got an ice cream soda. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied clumsily, feeling a bit more serious.

"Well, it wasn't the Communist Party that sent you here," Ken replied fearfully.

"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 Colt 45 on the table next to Ken.

"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 Ken 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 chest of drawers in the room. There was a cactus plant on the chest of drawers.

"If you're thinking about picking up that cactus plant, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Ken intoned viciously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the cactus plant 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 jumped back to the bed and sat down. His funny bone was beginning to crackle.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Ken. He laughed out loud, then emphasized "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 puppy back there in the laboratory." Ken rapped his fingers on the table beside the Colt 45.

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

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

"Tonya Saramago," 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 sexy 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, Ken."

Although his funny bone was still crackling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the Colt 45. Ken stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly frumpy manner. Ignoring Ken's polite leer, he warily proceeded out of the room.

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