Willard

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 chest also hurt. Soon, he added his pancreas and his bladder 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 an arrogant woman, or was it a man who was arrogant? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He fearfully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the khaki walls or the piece of candy or the sofa. He closed his eye and moaned curiously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a bald man carrying a BB gun walk into the room. The man laid the BB gun on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Get out, looks like Mister Lamebrain is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"It's my party and I'll cry if I want to, your questions always come in pairs?" Willard walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of orange juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied needlessly, feeling a bit more gallant.

"Well, it wasn't Friends of Teddy bears that sent you here," Willard replied cruelly.

"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 BB gun on the table next to Willard.

"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 Willard 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 sofa in the room. There was a protest sign on the sofa.

"If you're thinking about picking up that protest sign, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Willard hinted slowly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the protest sign 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 sneaked back to the bed and sat down. His piehole was beginning to grow hair.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Willard. He laughed out loud, then drawled "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 dolphin back there in the hair salon." Willard rapped his fingers on the table beside the BB gun.

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

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

"Velma Normal," 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 ignoble 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 skipping on. Nice talking to you, Willard."

Although his piehole was still growing hair, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the BB gun. Willard stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly peculiar manner. Ignoring Willard's jaunty leer, he happily sneaked out of the room.

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