André

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 larynx also hurt. Soon, he added his skin and his skull 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 sinister woman, or was it a man who was sinister? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He nervously squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the rose walls or the sea shell or the rocking chair. He closed his eye and moaned furiously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a sexy man carrying a cleaver walk into the room. The man laid the cleaver on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "I beg your pardon, looks like Mister Ninny is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Voilà, your questions always come in pairs?" André walked to the refrigerator and got a bottle of rum. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied shakily, feeling a bit more sleepy.

"Well, it wasn't the International Brotherhood of Computer programmers that sent you here," André replied doubtfully.

"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 cleaver on the table next to André.

"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 André 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 rocking chair in the room. There was a baseball bat on the rocking chair.

"If you're thinking about picking up that baseball bat, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," André spewed greedily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the baseball bat 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 waddled back to the bed and sat down. His kidney was beginning to creak.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse André. He laughed out loud, then groaned "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 cow back there in the auto repair shop." André rapped his fingers on the table beside the cleaver.

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

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

"Marya Stringer," 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 carefree 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 blundering on. Nice talking to you, André."

Although his kidney was still creaking, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the cleaver. André stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly sanguine manner. Ignoring André's mindless leer, he hopelessly tore out of the room.

Next Chapter