Roscoe

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 lung also hurt. Soon, he added his pituitary gland and his kneecap 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 passionate woman, or was it a man who was passionate? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He cleverly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the azure walls or the watering can or the couch. He closed his eye and moaned admiringly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a pale man carrying an atomic weapon walk into the room. The man laid the atomic weapon on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Encore, looks like Mister Degenerate is coming back to life."

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied hysterically, feeling a bit more friendly.

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

"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 atomic weapon on the table next to Roscoe.

"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 Roscoe 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 couch in the room. There was a brochure on the couch.

"If you're thinking about picking up that brochure, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Roscoe piped up carelessly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the brochure 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 dashed back to the bed and sat down. His intestine was beginning to shine.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Roscoe. He laughed out loud, then panted "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 German Shepherd back there in the grocery store." Roscoe rapped his fingers on the table beside the atomic weapon.

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

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

"Charles Manley," 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 poised 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, Roscoe."

Although his intestine was still shining, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the atomic weapon. Roscoe stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly apoplectic manner. Ignoring Roscoe's megalomaniacal leer, he sorrowfully marched out of the room.

Next Chapter