Plato

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 waist also hurt. Soon, he added his toenail and his larynx 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 solitary woman, or was it a man who was solitary? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He hungrily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the camouflage walls or the pink flamingo or the end table. He closed his eye and moaned merrily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a tiny man carrying an AK-47 walk into the room. The man laid the AK-47 on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Gosh, looks like Mister Lob-dotterel is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Malarkey, your questions always come in pairs?" Plato walked to the refrigerator and got a Brandy Alexander. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied warily, feeling a bit more lethargic.

"Well, it wasn't the ASPCA that sent you here," Plato replied jokingly.

"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 AK-47 on the table next to Plato.

"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 Plato who had sat in a chair next to the small table. There were no windows, and just the bed, the table, the refrigerator, and an end table in the room. There was a cigarette on the end table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that cigarette, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Plato snarled mysteriously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the cigarette 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 zoomed back to the bed and sat down. His neck was beginning to go numb.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Plato. He laughed out loud, then revealed "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 ghost back there in the opera house." Plato rapped his fingers on the table beside the AK-47.

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

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

"Dale Samaniego," 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 articulate 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, Plato."

Although his neck was still going numb, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the AK-47. Plato stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly cocky manner. Ignoring Plato's tired leer, he gruffly sailed out of the room.

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