Malcolm

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 thyroid gland also hurt. Soon, he added his hairdo and his heel 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 wily woman, or was it a man who was wily? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He charmingly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the burgundy walls or the book or the toilet. He closed his eye and moaned nicely.

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

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

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

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

"Great, your questions always come in pairs?" Malcolm walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of buttermilk. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied gleefully, feeling a bit more generous.

"Well, it wasn't Texas State University that sent you here," Malcolm replied quietly.

"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 wrench on the table next to Malcolm.

"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 Malcolm 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 toilet in the room. There was a paper bag on the toilet.

"If you're thinking about picking up that paper bag, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Malcolm guessed immediately.

He wasn't thinking about taking the paper bag 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 climbed back to the bed and sat down. His hoof was beginning to smoke.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Malcolm. He laughed out loud, then uttered "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 buzzard back there in the bakery." Malcolm rapped his fingers on the table beside the wrench.

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

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

"Garrick Whitefoot," 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 pert 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 sidling on. Nice talking to you, Malcolm."

Although his hoof was still smoking, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the wrench. Malcolm stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly pensive manner. Ignoring Malcolm's petulant leer, he bitterly dove out of the room.

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