Martin

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 vein also hurt. Soon, he added his hairdo and his throat 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 silly woman, or was it a man who was silly? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He dolorously squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the camouflage walls or the bird cage or the wardrobe. He closed his eye and moaned ferociously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a suave man carrying an angry glare walk into the room. The man laid the angry glare on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Spiff, looks like Mister Bumpkin is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Gee whillikers, your questions always come in pairs?" Martin walked to the refrigerator and got a gin sour. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied blindly, feeling a bit more ignoble.

"Well, it wasn't the National Rifle Association that sent you here," Martin replied daintily.

"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 angry glare on the table next to Martin.

"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 Martin 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 wardrobe in the room. There was a feather on the wardrobe.

"If you're thinking about picking up that feather, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Martin intimated hysterically.

He wasn't thinking about taking the feather 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 dashed back to the bed and sat down. His leg was beginning to roast.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Martin. He laughed out loud, then reminded "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 beaver back there in the mortuary." Martin rapped his fingers on the table beside the angry glare.

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

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

"Andie Salazar," 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 mindless 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 proceeding on. Nice talking to you, Martin."

Although his leg was still roasting, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the angry glare. Martin stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly anemic manner. Ignoring Martin's paranoid leer, he frenetically sprinted out of the room.

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