Garrick

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 Adam's apple also hurt. Soon, he added his buttocks and his knee 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 relaxed woman, or was it a man who was relaxed? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He fiercely squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the camouflage walls or the sponge or the workbench. He closed his eye and moaned sagely.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a plain man carrying a butcher knife walk into the room. The man laid the butcher knife on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Who cares, looks like Mister Stumblebum is coming back to life."

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied suavely, feeling a bit more desperate.

"Well, it wasn't the National Rifle Association that sent you here," Garrick replied tearfully.

"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 butcher knife on the table next to Garrick.

"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 Garrick 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 workbench in the room. There was a ruler on the workbench.

"If you're thinking about picking up that ruler, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Garrick squealed deliberately.

He wasn't thinking about taking the ruler 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 slunk back to the bed and sat down. His tummy was beginning to putrify.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Garrick. He laughed out loud, then blurted "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 duck-billed platypus back there in the ice cream parlor." Garrick rapped his fingers on the table beside the butcher knife.

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

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

"Shandra Porter," 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 spunky 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 parading on. Nice talking to you, Garrick."

Although his tummy was still putrifying, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the butcher knife. Garrick stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly sweet manner. Ignoring Garrick's zany leer, he positively inched out of the room.

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