Martin

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 Achilles tendon also hurt. Soon, he added his tail and his leg 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 ladylike woman, or was it a man who was ladylike? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He slyly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the peach walls or the soccer ball or the settee. He closed his eye and moaned warmly.

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

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

"Never mind, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Martin.

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

"Goodness, your questions always come in pairs?" Martin walked to the refrigerator and got a shot of tequila. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

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

"Well, it wasn't a Congressional committee that sent you here," Martin 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 cleaver on the table next to Martin.

"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 Martin 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 settee in the room. There was a deck of cards on the settee.

"If you're thinking about picking up that deck of cards, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Martin scoffed nicely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the deck of cards 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 loped back to the bed and sat down. His pituitary gland was beginning to get hot.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Martin. He laughed out loud, then recited "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 elk back there in the hair salon." Martin rapped his fingers on the table beside the cleaver.

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

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

"Ivan Rutherford," 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 sanguine 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, Martin."

Although his pituitary gland was still getting hot, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the cleaver. Martin stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly weird manner. Ignoring Martin's enthusiastic leer, he majestically hobbled out of the room.

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