Marcus

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 skin also hurt. Soon, he added his toenail and his dignity 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 agitated woman, or was it a man who was agitated? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He anxiously squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the mauve walls or the top or the computer. He closed his eye and moaned miserably.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a bald man carrying a witty reparteé walk into the room. The man laid the witty reparteé on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Is that a fact, looks like Mister Dimwit is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Ka-ching, your questions always come in pairs?" Marcus walked to the refrigerator and got a sassafras tea. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied defiantly, feeling a bit more dumb.

"Well, it wasn't the National Endowment for the Preservation of Bells that sent you here," Marcus replied cleverly.

"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 witty reparteé on the table next to Marcus.

"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 Marcus 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 computer in the room. There was a roll of duct tape on the computer.

"If you're thinking about picking up that roll of duct tape, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Marcus comforted hopefully.

He wasn't thinking about taking the roll of duct tape 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 skipped back to the bed and sat down. His kneecap was beginning to decay.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Marcus. He laughed out loud, then yowled "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 tapeworm back there in the clothing store." Marcus rapped his fingers on the table beside the witty reparteé.

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

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

"Paige Brock," 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 sloppy 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 clambering on. Nice talking to you, Marcus."

Although his kneecap was still decaying, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the witty reparteé. Marcus stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly stinky manner. Ignoring Marcus's prickly leer, he hopefully scampered out of the room.

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