Morton

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 finger also hurt. Soon, he added his toe and his chin 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 gregarious woman, or was it a man who was gregarious? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He boldly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the sparkly walls or the pipe or the TV. He closed his eye and moaned trustingly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a flabby man carrying a stash of bribe money walk into the room. The man laid the stash of bribe money on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "In your dreams, looks like Mister Villain is coming back to life."

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

"I think not, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Morton.

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

"Good grief, your questions always come in pairs?" Morton walked to the refrigerator and got a Shirley Temple. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied violently, feeling a bit more monstrous.

"Well, it wasn't the NBA that sent you here," Morton replied flightily.

"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 stash of bribe money on the table next to Morton.

"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 Morton 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 TV in the room. There was a whoopee cushion on the TV.

"If you're thinking about picking up that whoopee cushion, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Morton brought up automatically.

He wasn't thinking about taking the whoopee cushion 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 skipped back to the bed and sat down. His toupee was beginning to throb.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Morton. He laughed out loud, then quavered "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 buffalo back there in the clothing store." Morton rapped his fingers on the table beside the stash of bribe money.

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

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

"Doug Nussbaum," 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 irate 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 struggling on. Nice talking to you, Morton."

Although his toupee was still throbbing, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the stash of bribe money. Morton stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly solitary manner. Ignoring Morton's deadly leer, he menacingly traipsed out of the room.

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