Bud

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 thyroid gland also hurt. Soon, he added his bladder and his larynx 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 an artistic woman, or was it a man who was artistic? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He blindly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the purple walls or the smart phone or the armoire. He closed his eye and moaned suddenly.

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

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

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

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

"I think not, your questions always come in pairs?" Bud walked to the refrigerator and got a tequila sunrise. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied ingeniously, feeling a bit more energetic.

"Well, it wasn't the Society of Teachers that sent you here," Bud replied suavely.

"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 tomahawk on the table next to Bud.

"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 Bud who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and an armoire in the room. There was a diamond on the armoire.

"If you're thinking about picking up that diamond, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Bud harangued arrogantly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the diamond 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 rolled back to the bed and sat down. His thigh was beginning to bulge.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Bud. He laughed out loud, then blubbered "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 hornet back there in the Starbucks." Bud rapped his fingers on the table beside the tomahawk.

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

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

"Gloria Gardner," 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 absent-minded 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 hobbling on. Nice talking to you, Bud."

Although his thigh was still bulging, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the tomahawk. Bud stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly modest manner. Ignoring Bud's gallant leer, he thankfully traipsed out of the room.

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