Randall

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 neck also hurt. Soon, he added his fingernail and his thorax 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 shy woman, or was it a man who was shy? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He confidently squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the terra cotta walls or the piece of chalk or the bookcase. He closed his eye and moaned elatedly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a ruddy man carrying a shotgun walk into the room. The man laid the shotgun on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Gosh almighty, looks like Mister Fanatic is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Jeez, your questions always come in pairs?" Randall walked to the refrigerator and got an old fashioned. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied neatly, feeling a bit more princely.

"Well, it wasn't the National Endowment for the Preservation of Microphones that sent you here," Randall replied irritably.

"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 shotgun on the table next to Randall.

"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 Randall 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 bookcase in the room. There was a fountain pen on the bookcase.

"If you're thinking about picking up that fountain pen, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Randall prattled briskly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the fountain pen 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 ran back to the bed and sat down. His earlobe was beginning to go nuts.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Randall. He laughed out loud, then wept "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 dachshund back there in the brewery." Randall rapped his fingers on the table beside the shotgun.

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

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

"Alistair Johnston," 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 mindless 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 creeping on. Nice talking to you, Randall."

Although his earlobe was still going nuts, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the shotgun. Randall stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly taciturn manner. Ignoring Randall's princely leer, he quickly struggled out of the room.

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