Wes

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 shoulder also hurt. Soon, he added his collarbone and his big toe 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 sincere woman, or was it a man who was sincere? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He nervously squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the hot pink walls or the mop or the footstool. He closed his eye and moaned miserably.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a ruddy man carrying a roll of duct tape walk into the room. The man laid the roll of duct tape on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Eh, looks like Mister Maniac is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"In your dreams, your questions always come in pairs?" Wes walked to the refrigerator and got a bottle of Gatorade. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied dolorously, feeling a bit more fascinating.

"Well, it wasn't the University of Tennessee that sent you here," Wes replied warmly.

"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 roll of duct tape on the table next to Wes.

"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 Wes 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 footstool in the room. There was a dog biscuit on the footstool.

"If you're thinking about picking up that dog biscuit, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Wes protested joyously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the dog biscuit 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 danced back to the bed and sat down. His waist was beginning to warp.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Wes. He laughed out loud, then maintained "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 snake back there in the cigar store." Wes rapped his fingers on the table beside the roll of duct tape.

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

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

"Deena Caldwell," 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 grizzled 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 slinking on. Nice talking to you, Wes."

Although his waist was still warping, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the roll of duct tape. Wes stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly hungry manner. Ignoring Wes's repulsive leer, he gently skittered out of the room.

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