Marcus

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 palm also hurt. Soon, he added his front tooth and his esophagus 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 sarcastic woman, or was it a man who was sarcastic? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He confidently squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the chartreuse walls or the bag of ice or the fainting couch. He closed his eye and moaned suddenly.

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

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

"For cryin' out loud, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Marcus.

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

"Spiffy, your questions always come in pairs?" Marcus walked to the refrigerator and got a cup of espresso. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied temperamentally, feeling a bit more obese.

"Well, it wasn't the Communist Party that sent you here," Marcus replied delicately.

"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 battle axe on the table next to Marcus.

"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 Marcus 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 fainting couch in the room. There was a photograph on the fainting couch.

"If you're thinking about picking up that photograph, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Marcus sniffed coolly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the photograph 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 tore back to the bed and sat down. His thorax was beginning to go nuts.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Marcus. He laughed out loud, then burbled "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 hippopotamus back there in the library." Marcus rapped his fingers on the table beside the battle axe.

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

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

"Rob Schmidt," 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 fearless 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 diving on. Nice talking to you, Marcus."

Although his thorax was still going nuts, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the battle axe. Marcus stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly solitary manner. Ignoring Marcus's athletic leer, he repeatedly ran out of the room.

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