Harold

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 Adam's apple also hurt. Soon, he added his spinal cord and his rib 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 wary woman, or was it a man who was wary? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He tearfully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the magenta walls or the pearl or the display case. He closed his eye and moaned awkwardly.

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

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

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

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

"Whoop-dee-doo, your questions always come in pairs?" Harold walked to the refrigerator and got a hot chocolate. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied strangely, feeling a bit more prissy.

"Well, it wasn't the U.S. Senate that sent you here," Harold replied strictly.

"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 disarming smile on the table next to Harold.

"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 Harold 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 display case in the room. There was a flashlight on the display case.

"If you're thinking about picking up that flashlight, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Harold yawned daringly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the flashlight 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 clambered back to the bed and sat down. His spleen was beginning to ache.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Harold. He laughed out loud, then fantasized "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 gorilla back there in the library." Harold rapped his fingers on the table beside the disarming smile.

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

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

"Demetrius Wolfe," 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 sarcastic 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 skidding on. Nice talking to you, Harold."

Although his spleen was still aching, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the disarming smile. Harold stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly disagreeable manner. Ignoring Harold's dependable leer, he coldly waded out of the room.

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