Bronk

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 hair also hurt. Soon, he added his lip and his 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 cantankerous woman, or was it a man who was cantankerous? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He lamely squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the aqua walls or the tennis racket or the wardrobe. He closed his eye and moaned caustically.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a feeble man carrying a grenade launcher walk into the room. The man laid the grenade launcher on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Uh-oh, looks like Mister Knucklehead is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Castor and Pollux! Blow me to Bermuda, your questions always come in pairs?" Bronk walked to the refrigerator and got a chamomile tea. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied crazily, feeling a bit more quiet.

"Well, it wasn't the National Society of Cheesemakers that sent you here," Bronk replied dolefully.

"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 grenade launcher on the table next to Bronk.

"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 Bronk 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 wardrobe in the room. There was a helmet on the wardrobe.

"If you're thinking about picking up that helmet, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Bronk groaned repeatedly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the helmet 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 swung back to the bed and sat down. His esophagus was beginning to reek.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Bronk. He laughed out loud, then croaked "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 shark back there in the café." Bronk rapped his fingers on the table beside the grenade launcher.

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

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

"Eleanor Eklund," 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 pesky 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, Bronk."

Although his esophagus was still reeking, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the grenade launcher. Bronk stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly conceited manner. Ignoring Bronk's self-assured leer, he warily galumphed out of the room.

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