Mickey

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 dignity also hurt. Soon, he added his throat and his ear 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 disgusting woman, or was it a man who was disgusting? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He swiftly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the white walls or the biscuit or the chair. He closed his eye and moaned deftly.

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

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

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

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

"Banzai, your questions always come in pairs?" Mickey walked to the refrigerator and got a hot chocolate. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied crossly, feeling a bit more annoying.

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

"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 Bowie knife on the table next to Mickey.

"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 Mickey 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 chair in the room. There was a deck of cards on the chair.

"If you're thinking about picking up that deck of cards, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Mickey hummed tensely.

He wasn't thinking about taking the deck of cards 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 strolled back to the bed and sat down. His chest was beginning to come off.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Mickey. He laughed out loud, then disputed "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 poodle back there in the video arcade." Mickey rapped his fingers on the table beside the Bowie knife.

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

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

"Jeanette Paulson," 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 portly 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 straggling on. Nice talking to you, Mickey."

Although his chest was still coming off, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the Bowie knife. Mickey stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly sweet manner. Ignoring Mickey's nonchalant leer, he gently lurched out of the room.

Next Chapter