Francisco

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 lung also hurt. Soon, he added his tongue and his horn 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 brave woman, or was it a man who was brave? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He sweetly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the green walls or the muffin or the TV. He closed his eye and moaned hastily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a gorgeous man carrying a flask walk into the room. The man laid the flask on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Castor and Pollux! Blow me to Bermuda, looks like Mister Cheater is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Lordy, your questions always come in pairs?" Francisco walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of grape juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied ferociously, feeling a bit more agile.

"Well, it wasn't the U.S. Embassy that sent you here," Francisco replied irritably.

"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 flask on the table next to Francisco.

"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 Francisco 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 TV in the room. There was a pickle on the TV.

"If you're thinking about picking up that pickle, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Francisco ranted unexpectedly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the pickle 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 stormed back to the bed and sat down. His chest 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 Francisco. He laughed out loud, then wondered "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 lizard back there in the storage unit." Francisco rapped his fingers on the table beside the flask.

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

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

"Alicia Marsh," 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 bald 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, Francisco."

Although his chest was still growing hair, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the flask. Francisco stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly pert manner. Ignoring Francisco's jaunty leer, he hopefully bounced out of the room.

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