Rufus

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 paw also hurt. Soon, he added his paw and his pride 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 an undignified woman, or was it a man who was undignified? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He brightly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the purple walls or the urn or the bookshelf. He closed his eye and moaned blissfully.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a frail man carrying a syringe walk into the room. The man laid the syringe on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Voilà, looks like Mister hair stylist is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Rubbish, your questions always come in pairs?" Rufus 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 offhandedly, feeling a bit more funny.

"Well, it wasn't the Jehovah's Witness Society that sent you here," Rufus replied fervently.

"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 syringe on the table next to Rufus.

"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 Rufus 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 bookshelf in the room. There was a houseplant on the bookshelf.

"If you're thinking about picking up that houseplant, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Rufus wailed sleepily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the houseplant 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 bicep was beginning to slide.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Rufus. He laughed out loud, then imitated "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 gerbil back there in the hair salon." Rufus rapped his fingers on the table beside the syringe.

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

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

"Bria Kissling," 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 statuesque 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 hobbling on. Nice talking to you, Rufus."

Although his bicep was still sliding, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the syringe. Rufus stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly rude manner. Ignoring Rufus's sloppy leer, he firmly tumbled out of the room.

Next Chapter