Rick

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 bicep also hurt. Soon, he added his leg and his elbow 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 princely woman, or was it a man who was princely? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He blissfully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the jet black walls or the paper airplane or the end table. He closed his eye and moaned deftly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a blushing man carrying a can opener walk into the room. The man laid the can opener on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Thanks for nothing, looks like Mister Flake is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Totally rad, your questions always come in pairs?" Rick walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of apple juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied woodenly, feeling a bit more rapacious.

"Well, it wasn't the National Football League that sent you here," Rick replied perkily.

"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 can opener on the table next to Rick.

"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 Rick 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 end table in the room. There was a notepad on the end table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that notepad, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Rick squawked wildly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the notepad 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 trekked back to the bed and sat down. His lung was beginning to get wonky.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Rick. He laughed out loud, then joked "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 beagle back there in the psychic reading business." Rick rapped his fingers on the table beside the can opener.

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

"You tripped on a tube of glue. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Erwin Flake," 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 slumping on. Nice talking to you, Rick."

Although his lung was still getting wonky, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the can opener. Rick stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly idiotic manner. Ignoring Rick's vacuous leer, he gleefully sneaked out of the room.

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