Mel

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 jaw also hurt. Soon, he added his heart and his stomach 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 urbane woman, or was it a man who was urbane? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He blissfully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the black walls or the bag of potato chips or the settee. He closed his eye and moaned defiantly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a wizened man carrying a switchblade walk into the room. The man laid the switchblade on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Puppy biscuits, looks like Mister Creep is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Tubular, your questions always come in pairs?" Mel walked to the refrigerator and got a cup of cocoa. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied daringly, feeling a bit more brilliant.

"Well, it wasn't the Bureau of Indian Affairs that sent you here," Mel replied speedily.

"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 switchblade on the table next to Mel.

"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 Mel 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 settee in the room. There was a toolbox on the settee.

"If you're thinking about picking up that toolbox, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Mel phrased glumly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the toolbox 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 dove back to the bed and sat down. His fingernail was beginning to mold.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Mel. He laughed out loud, then whispered "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 gerbil back there in the souvenir shop." Mel rapped his fingers on the table beside the switchblade.

"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?"

"Lauren Nurbabayev," 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 articulate 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 speeding on. Nice talking to you, Mel."

Although his fingernail was still molding, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the switchblade. Mel stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly somber manner. Ignoring Mel's dismal leer, he peevishly barrelled out of the room.

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