Roscoe

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 artery also hurt. Soon, he added his lung and his cheek 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 cuddly woman, or was it a man who was cuddly? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He queerly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the ivory walls or the pink flamingo or the casket. He closed his eye and moaned quietly.

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

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

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

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

"Moo, your questions always come in pairs?" Roscoe walked to the refrigerator and got a fruit smoothie. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied queerly, feeling a bit more pigeon-toed.

"Well, it wasn't the National Society of Taxi drivers that sent you here," Roscoe replied sourly.

"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 dagger on the table next to Roscoe.

"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 Roscoe 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 casket in the room. There was an African violet on the casket.

"If you're thinking about picking up that African violet, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Roscoe interpreted again.

He wasn't thinking about taking the African violet 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 slumped back to the bed and sat down. His buttocks was beginning to rot.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Roscoe. He laughed out loud, then thought "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 brine shrimp back there in the grocery store." Roscoe rapped his fingers on the table beside the dagger.

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

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

"Kristi Marsden," 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 considerate 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 cantering on. Nice talking to you, Roscoe."

Although his buttocks was still rotting, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the dagger. Roscoe stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly princely manner. Ignoring Roscoe's shiftless leer, he obediently scurried out of the room.

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