Alexander

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 tongue also hurt. Soon, he added his hand and his front tooth 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 enraged woman, or was it a man who was enraged? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He hopelessly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the silver walls or the book or the toilet. He closed his eye and moaned immediately.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a pretty man carrying a Colt 45 walk into the room. The man laid the Colt 45 on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Like fun, looks like Mister Poopyface is coming back to life."

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

"No way, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Alexander.

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

"Lord be praised, your questions always come in pairs?" Alexander walked to the refrigerator and got a tequila sunrise. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied quietly, feeling a bit more thoughtful.

"Well, it wasn't the National Fraternity of Professional dancers that sent you here," Alexander replied solemnly.

"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 Colt 45 on the table next to Alexander.

"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 Alexander 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 toilet in the room. There was a bag of groceries on the toilet.

"If you're thinking about picking up that bag of groceries, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Alexander clarified lovingly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the bag of groceries 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 galloped back to the bed and sat down. His horn was beginning to growl.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Alexander. He laughed out loud, then crooned "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 turkey back there in the ad agency." Alexander rapped his fingers on the table beside the Colt 45.

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

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

"Millicent Benishek," 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 muddled 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 straggling on. Nice talking to you, Alexander."

Although his horn was still growling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the Colt 45. Alexander stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly lanky manner. Ignoring Alexander's dignified leer, he fondly slunk out of the room.

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