Horatio

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 liver also hurt. Soon, he added his toenail and his little finger 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 princely woman, or was it a man who was princely? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He frantically squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the violet walls or the mousetrap or the hamper. He closed his eye and moaned dolefully.

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

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

"W00t, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Horatio.

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

"Bowwow, your questions always come in pairs?" Horatio walked to the refrigerator and got a Shirley Temple. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied fervently, feeling a bit more vacuous.

"Well, it wasn't the International Brotherhood of Stable boys that sent you here," Horatio replied ingeniously.

"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 pistol on the table next to Horatio.

"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 Horatio 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 hamper in the room. There was a contract on the hamper.

"If you're thinking about picking up that contract, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Horatio burbled fervently.

He wasn't thinking about taking the contract 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 darted back to the bed and sat down. His horn was beginning to wither.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Horatio. He laughed out loud, then intimated "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 magpie back there in the beauty salon." Horatio rapped his fingers on the table beside the pistol.

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

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

"Lillie Sales," 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 talkative 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, Horatio."

Although his horn was still withering, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the pistol. Horatio stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly dumb manner. Ignoring Horatio's excitable leer, he violently stormed out of the room.

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