Keith

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 skull also hurt. Soon, he added his thumb and his artery 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 young woman, or was it a man who was young? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He madly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the striped walls or the peanut or the water bed. He closed his eye and moaned demurely.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see an olive man carrying a scimitar walk into the room. The man laid the scimitar on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Dum de dum dum, looks like Mister Eager beaver is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Ulp, your questions always come in pairs?" Keith walked to the refrigerator and got a Mountain Dew. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied immediately, feeling a bit more creepy.

"Well, it wasn't the National Endowment for the Preservation of Tubes of glue that sent you here," Keith replied sagely.

"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 scimitar on the table next to Keith.

"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 Keith 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 water bed in the room. There was a bag of popcorn on the water bed.

"If you're thinking about picking up that bag of popcorn, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Keith inquired blindly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the bag of popcorn 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 barrelled back to the bed and sat down. His collarbone was beginning to dangle.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Keith. He laughed out loud, then mouthed "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 lamb back there in the gift shop." Keith rapped his fingers on the table beside the scimitar.

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

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

"Billy Rawlings," 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 an adorable 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 running on. Nice talking to you, Keith."

Although his collarbone was still dangling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the scimitar. Keith stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly arrogant manner. Ignoring Keith's sketchy leer, he resignedly careened out of the room.

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