Dirk

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 mouth also hurt. Soon, he added his skin and his buttocks 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 undignified woman, or was it a man who was undignified? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He crankily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the sea green walls or the shovel or the credenza. He closed his eye and moaned speedily.

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

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

"Never, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Dirk.

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

"Get outta here, your questions always come in pairs?" Dirk walked to the refrigerator and got a Mountain Dew. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied admiringly, feeling a bit more smart.

"Well, it wasn't the American Medical Association that sent you here," Dirk replied boldly.

"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 blackjack on the table next to Dirk.

"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 Dirk 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 credenza in the room. There was a bird bath on the credenza.

"If you're thinking about picking up that bird bath, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Dirk said menacingly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the bird bath 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 careened back to the bed and sat down. His thyroid gland was beginning to rumble.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Dirk. He laughed out loud, then hissed "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 newt back there in the movie theater." Dirk rapped his fingers on the table beside the blackjack.

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

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

"Butch Myers," 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 puzzled 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 scampering on. Nice talking to you, Dirk."

Although his thyroid gland was still rumbling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the blackjack. Dirk stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly irate manner. Ignoring Dirk's megalomaniacal leer, he blindly slid out of the room.

Next Chapter