Biff

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 cheek also hurt. Soon, he added his thigh and his spine 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 intense woman, or was it a man who was intense? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He bitterly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the orange walls or the pail or the washstand. He closed his eye and moaned nervously.

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

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied fearfully, feeling a bit more cunning.

"Well, it wasn't Technicians Anonymous that sent you here," Biff replied hungrily.

"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 spray paint on the table next to Biff.

"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 Biff 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 washstand in the room. There was a radio on the washstand.

"If you're thinking about picking up that radio, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Biff imitated silently.

He wasn't thinking about taking the radio 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 strolled back to the bed and sat down. His heel was beginning to disintegrate.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Biff. He laughed out loud, then sniffed "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 wallaby back there in the convenience store." Biff rapped his fingers on the table beside the can of spray paint.

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

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

"Bria Slater," 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 contented 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 leaping on. Nice talking to you, Biff."

Although his heel was still disintegrating, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the can of spray paint. Biff stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly cheerful manner. Ignoring Biff's muddled leer, he sadly sidled out of the room.

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