Milton

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 tummy also hurt. Soon, he added his thyroid gland and his tooth 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 disorganized woman, or was it a man who was disorganized? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He temperamentally squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the amber walls or the stick of gum or the cupboard. He closed his eye and moaned slyly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a plump man carrying a pair of scissors walk into the room. The man laid the pair of scissors on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Phooey, looks like Mister Hog is coming back to life."

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied recklessly, feeling a bit more furry.

"Well, it wasn't the Arbor Day Foundation that sent you here," Milton replied nicely.

"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 pair of scissors on the table next to Milton.

"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 Milton 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 cupboard in the room. There was a piece of chalk on the cupboard.

"If you're thinking about picking up that piece of chalk, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Milton panted lickety-split.

He wasn't thinking about taking the piece of chalk 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 trotted back to the bed and sat down. His toenail was beginning to aggravate.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Milton. He laughed out loud, then admitted "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 ladybug back there in the Hallmark shop." Milton rapped his fingers on the table beside the pair of scissors.

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

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

"George Fischer," 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 noxious 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 sneaking on. Nice talking to you, Milton."

Although his toenail was still aggravating, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the pair of scissors. Milton stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly intrepid manner. Ignoring Milton's repulsive leer, he strangely slithered out of the room.

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