Twigs

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 piehole also hurt. Soon, he added his jaw and his appendix 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 desperate woman, or was it a man who was desperate? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He testily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the tan walls or the toilet seat or the ironing board. He closed his eye and moaned later.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a sorrowful man carrying a political action committee walk into the room. The man laid the political action committee on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Yeeshka, looks like Mister Doofus is coming back to life."

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

"Not so fast, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Twigs.

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

"Poof, your questions always come in pairs?" Twigs walked to the refrigerator and got a chocolate milk. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied greedily, feeling a bit more idiotic.

"Well, it wasn't the Fire Department that sent you here," Twigs replied menacingly.

"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 political action committee on the table next to Twigs.

"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 Twigs 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 ironing board in the room. There was a Hostess Ding Dong on the ironing board.

"If you're thinking about picking up that Hostess Ding Dong, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Twigs boasted cunningly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the Hostess Ding Dong 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 sneaked back to the bed and sat down. His dignity was beginning to act weird.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Twigs. He laughed out loud, then lamented "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 phantom back there in the bar." Twigs rapped his fingers on the table beside the political action committee.

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

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

"Angelo Mackintosh," 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 affable 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 scooting on. Nice talking to you, Twigs."

Although his dignity was still acting weird, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the political action committee. Twigs stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly cocky manner. Ignoring Twigs's fearless leer, he doubtfully paraded out of the room.

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