Hamlet

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 calf also hurt. Soon, he added his gut and his claw 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 prissy woman, or was it a man who was prissy? 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 turquoise walls or the saw or the washing machine. He closed his eye and moaned sarcastically.

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

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

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

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

"I don't think so, your questions always come in pairs?" Hamlet walked to the refrigerator and got a Seven and Seven. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied cheerfully, feeling a bit more daring.

"Well, it wasn't the ASPCA that sent you here," Hamlet replied automatically.

"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 blunderbuss on the table next to Hamlet.

"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 Hamlet 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 washing machine in the room. There was a fishhook on the washing machine.

"If you're thinking about picking up that fishhook, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Hamlet boomed mysteriously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the fishhook 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 skipped back to the bed and sat down. His thorax was beginning to hang down.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Hamlet. He laughed out loud, then blurted "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 tarantula back there in the psychic reading business." Hamlet rapped his fingers on the table beside the blunderbuss.

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

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

"Sydmo Stoltenburg," 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 energetic 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 strolling on. Nice talking to you, Hamlet."

Although his thorax was still hanging down, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the blunderbuss. Hamlet stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly excitable manner. Ignoring Hamlet's friendly leer, he hungrily lumbered out of the room.

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