Butch

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 Achilles tendon also hurt. Soon, he added his scalp and his front 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 witty woman, or was it a man who was witty? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He cruelly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the brilliant orange walls or the muffin or the billiard table. He closed his eye and moaned suspiciously.

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

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

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

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

"Son of a Baptist preacher, your questions always come in pairs?" Butch walked to the refrigerator and got a root beer. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied innocently, feeling a bit more haughty.

"Well, it wasn't the Christian Temperance Union that sent you here," Butch replied demurely.

"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 Taser on the table next to Butch.

"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 Butch 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 billiard table in the room. There was a comic book on the billiard table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that comic book, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Butch sniped cunningly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the comic book 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 sailed back to the bed and sat down. His intestine 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 Butch. He laughed out loud, then instructed "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 dragon back there in the pet shop." Butch rapped his fingers on the table beside the Taser.

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

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

"Emmeline Page," 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 peculiar 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 traipsing on. Nice talking to you, Butch."

Although his intestine was still going nuts, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the Taser. Butch stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly brassy manner. Ignoring Butch's cruel leer, he daringly galumphed out of the room.

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