Kellen

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 hip also hurt. Soon, he added his bladder and his shin 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 proud woman, or was it a man who was proud? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He ruefully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the brilliant orange walls or the bottle of painkillers or the ping-pong table. He closed his eye and moaned strangely.

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

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

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

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

"Thanks for nothing, your questions always come in pairs?" Kellen walked to the refrigerator and got a Cuba libre. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied lightly, feeling a bit more disgusting.

"Well, it wasn't the Panthers Auxiliary that sent you here," Kellen replied clumsily.

"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 shotgun on the table next to Kellen.

"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 Kellen 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 ping-pong table in the room. There was a comic book on the ping-pong table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that comic book, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Kellen joked accidentally.

He wasn't thinking about taking the comic book 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 ran back to the bed and sat down. His finger was beginning to feel weird.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Kellen. He laughed out loud, then brought up "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 dingo back there in the nail salon." Kellen rapped his fingers on the table beside the shotgun.

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

"You tripped on a roll of toilet paper. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Chum Steele," 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 sleek 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 tumbling on. Nice talking to you, Kellen."

Although his finger was still feeling weird, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the shotgun. Kellen stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly distressed manner. Ignoring Kellen's big leer, he sharply dashed out of the room.

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