Peter

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 tail also hurt. Soon, he added his little finger and his chin 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 masculine woman, or was it a man who was masculine? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He needlessly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the jade walls or the Frisbee or the bar stool. He closed his eye and moaned sarcastically.

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

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

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

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

"Great Jehosaphat, your questions always come in pairs?" Peter walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of iced tea. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied steadily, feeling a bit more smart.

"Well, it wasn't the Humane Society that sent you here," Peter replied ruefully.

"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 dagger on the table next to Peter.

"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 Peter 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 bar stool in the room. There was a cigarette lighter on the bar stool.

"If you're thinking about picking up that cigarette lighter, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Peter orated sagely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the cigarette lighter 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 scooted back to the bed and sat down. His hair was beginning to radiate.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Peter. He laughed out loud, then observed "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 an ape back there in the supermarket." Peter rapped his fingers on the table beside the dagger.

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

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

"Gunther Moodle," 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 tired 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 ambling on. Nice talking to you, Peter."

Although his hair was still radiating, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the dagger. Peter stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly relaxed manner. Ignoring Peter's creepy leer, he miserably padded out of the room.

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