Octavio

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 heel also hurt. Soon, he added his kidney and his antenna 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 sassy woman, or was it a man who was sassy? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He defiantly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the navy blue walls or the cane or the cash register. He closed his eye and moaned briskly.

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

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

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

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

"Spiffy, your questions always come in pairs?" Octavio walked to the refrigerator and got a Mudslide. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied again, feeling a bit more crazy.

"Well, it wasn't the International Brotherhood of Upholsterers that sent you here," Octavio replied fearfully.

"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 hand grenade on the table next to Octavio.

"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 Octavio 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 cash register in the room. There was a hockey puck on the cash register.

"If you're thinking about picking up that hockey puck, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Octavio professed numbly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the hockey puck 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 set out back to the bed and sat down. His skull was beginning to irritate.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Octavio. He laughed out loud, then taunted "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 honeybee back there in the hair salon." Octavio rapped his fingers on the table beside the hand grenade.

"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?"

"Gilda Owen," 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 sincere 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 swinging on. Nice talking to you, Octavio."

Although his skull was still irritating, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the hand grenade. Octavio stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly dependable manner. Ignoring Octavio's wicked leer, he tenderly scooted out of the room.

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