Buster

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 funny bone also hurt. Soon, he added his waist and his knuckle 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 statuesque woman, or was it a man who was statuesque? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He proudly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the sparkly walls or the map or the pillow. He closed his eye and moaned viciously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a lean man carrying a smoke bomb walk into the room. The man laid the smoke bomb on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Judas Priest, looks like Mister Fanatic is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Oh my, your questions always come in pairs?" Buster walked to the refrigerator and got a Moscow mule. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied threateningly, feeling a bit more sassy.

"Well, it wasn't the Chamber of Commerce that sent you here," Buster replied unabashedly.

"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 smoke bomb on the table next to Buster.

"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 Buster 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 pillow in the room. There was a paper airplane on the pillow.

"If you're thinking about picking up that paper airplane, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Buster chortled woefully.

He wasn't thinking about taking the paper airplane 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 scampered back to the bed and sat down. His hangnail was beginning to freeze.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Buster. He laughed out loud, then babbled "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 mole back there in the storage unit." Buster rapped his fingers on the table beside the smoke bomb.

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

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

"Bert Hartford," 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 an undignified 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 galumphing on. Nice talking to you, Buster."

Although his hangnail was still freezing, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the smoke bomb. Buster stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly disorganized manner. Ignoring Buster's vivacious leer, he violently sailed out of the room.

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