Roger

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 head also hurt. Soon, he added his tooth and his waist 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 puzzled woman, or was it a man who was puzzled? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He sheepishly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the aqua walls or the artificial flower or the water bed. He closed his eye and moaned carelessly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a pale man carrying a can of Raid walk into the room. The man laid the can of Raid on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Yes, looks like Mister Hound dog is coming back to life."

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied frenetically, feeling a bit more relaxed.

"Well, it wasn't the Baptist Church that sent you here," Roger replied gently.

"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 can of Raid on the table next to Roger.

"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 Roger 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 water bed in the room. There was an ingot of plutonium on the water bed.

"If you're thinking about picking up that ingot of plutonium, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Roger harangued urgently.

He wasn't thinking about taking the ingot of plutonium 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 lurched back to the bed and sat down. His thumb was beginning to melt.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Roger. He laughed out loud, then noted "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 fish back there in the antique store." Roger rapped his fingers on the table beside the can of Raid.

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

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

"Ichabod Gorman," 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 sarcastic 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 tumbling on. Nice talking to you, Roger."

Although his thumb was still melting, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the can of Raid. Roger stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly radiant manner. Ignoring Roger's demented leer, he despondently bolted out of the room.

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