Rip

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 belly button also hurt. Soon, he added his toe and his little finger 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 confident woman, or was it a man who was confident? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He carefully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the brilliant orange walls or the pop bottle or the umbrella stand. He closed his eye and moaned crankily.

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

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

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

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?"

"Gosh darn, your questions always come in pairs?" Rip 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 hopefully, feeling a bit more crazy.

"Well, it wasn't the Smithsonian Institution that sent you here," Rip replied caustically.

"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 musket on the table next to Rip.

"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 Rip who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and an umbrella stand in the room. There was a cactus plant on the umbrella stand.

"If you're thinking about picking up that cactus plant, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Rip harangued curiously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the cactus plant 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 dashed back to the bed and sat down. His larynx was beginning to crumble.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Rip. He laughed out loud, then vouched "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 turtle back there in the butcher shop." Rip rapped his fingers on the table beside the musket.

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

"You tripped on a pair of knitting needles. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Madeline Wicker," 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 self-assured 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 darting on. Nice talking to you, Rip."

Although his larynx was still crumbling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the musket. Rip stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly vivacious manner. Ignoring Rip's difficult leer, he unabashedly bounded out of the room.

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