Jules

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 gut also hurt. Soon, he added his chin and his scalp 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 pesky woman, or was it a man who was pesky? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He nicely squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the emerald green walls or the tube of glue or the workbench. He closed his eye and moaned queerly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a pimply man carrying a weed whacker walk into the room. The man laid the weed whacker on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Yippee, looks like Mister Noodlebrain is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Son of a Baptist preacher, your questions always come in pairs?" Jules walked to the refrigerator and got an Irish Coffee. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied silently, feeling a bit more timid.

"Well, it wasn't a Congressional committee that sent you here," Jules replied fiercely.

"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 weed whacker on the table next to Jules.

"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 Jules 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 workbench in the room. There was a stick of gum on the workbench.

"If you're thinking about picking up that stick of gum, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Jules chuckled cruelly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the stick of gum 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 clambered back to the bed and sat down. His stomach was beginning to bulge.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Jules. He laughed out loud, then insisted "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 coyote back there in the butcher shop." Jules rapped his fingers on the table beside the weed whacker.

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

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

"Jane Ortiz," 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 grizzled 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 galumphing on. Nice talking to you, Jules."

Although his stomach was still bulging, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the weed whacker. Jules stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly noble manner. Ignoring Jules's exuberant leer, he grandly crept out of the room.

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