Miguel

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 collarbone also hurt. Soon, he added his back and his claw 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 shy woman, or was it a man who was shy? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He languidly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the teal walls or the hair dryer or the carpet. He closed his eye and moaned offhandedly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a gaunt man carrying an assault rifle walk into the room. The man laid the assault rifle on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "I'm sure, looks like Mister Monkey is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Oof, your questions always come in pairs?" Miguel walked to the refrigerator and got a root beer float. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied urgently, feeling a bit more fearless.

"Well, it wasn't the Church of God that sent you here," Miguel replied trustingly.

"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 assault rifle on the table next to Miguel.

"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 Miguel 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 carpet in the room. There was a basketball on the carpet.

"If you're thinking about picking up that basketball, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Miguel chortled haughtily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the basketball 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 clambered back to the bed and sat down. His fingernail was beginning to break.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Miguel. He laughed out loud, then whimpered "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 flea back there in the hair salon." Miguel rapped his fingers on the table beside the assault rifle.

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

"You tripped on an egg shell. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Dustin Powers," 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 cheerful 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 flying on. Nice talking to you, Miguel."

Although his fingernail was still breaking, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the assault rifle. Miguel stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly high-strung manner. Ignoring Miguel's masculine leer, he cruelly tumbled out of the room.

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