Nick

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 lip also hurt. Soon, he added his thigh and his skin 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 prickly woman, or was it a man who was prickly? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He flightily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the blue walls or the bell or the windowsill. He closed his eye and moaned cheerfully.

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

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

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

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

"Barf, your questions always come in pairs?" Nick walked to the refrigerator and got a Cuba libre. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied positively, feeling a bit more moody.

"Well, it wasn't the National Endowment for the Preservation of Vases that sent you here," Nick replied lamely.

"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 flamethrower on the table next to Nick.

"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 Nick 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 windowsill in the room. There was an ice cream cone on the windowsill.

"If you're thinking about picking up that ice cream cone, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Nick articulated coolly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the ice cream cone 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 tramped back to the bed and sat down. His claw was beginning to irritate.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Nick. He laughed out loud, then analyzed "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 Norway rat back there in the art museum." Nick rapped his fingers on the table beside the flamethrower.

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

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

"Romeo Andrews," 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 an idiotic 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 rolling on. Nice talking to you, Nick."

Although his claw was still irritating, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the flamethrower. Nick stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly quiet manner. Ignoring Nick's dark leer, he deftly slumped out of the room.

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