Ken

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 arm also hurt. Soon, he added his brain and his piehole 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 wily woman, or was it a man who was wily? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He unabashedly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the ivory walls or the protest sign or the pillow. He closed his eye and moaned blindly.

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

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

"Castor and Pollux! Blow me to Bermuda, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Ken.

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

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

"What accident?" he replied blissfully, feeling a bit more dowdy.

"Well, it wasn't the U.S. Army that sent you here," Ken replied ferociously.

"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 shotgun on the table next to Ken.

"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 Ken 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 pillow in the room. There was a pain pill on the pillow.

"If you're thinking about picking up that pain pill, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Ken chimed positively.

He wasn't thinking about taking the pain pill 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 scampered back to the bed and sat down. His dignity was beginning to feel heavy.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Ken. He laughed out loud, then worried "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 manticore back there in the pet shop." Ken rapped his fingers on the table beside the shotgun.

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

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

"Benjamin Ridley," 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 brash 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 cantering on. Nice talking to you, Ken."

Although his dignity was still feeling heavy, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the shotgun. Ken stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly wily manner. Ignoring Ken's mindless leer, he cruelly strolled out of the room.

Next Chapter