Bix

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 palm also hurt. Soon, he added his skin and his funny bone 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 deadly woman, or was it a man who was deadly? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He violently squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the red walls or the thumb drive or the settee. He closed his eye and moaned lickety-split.

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

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

"Can you dig it?, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me Bix.

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

"Really, your questions always come in pairs?" Bix walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of tomato juice. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied threateningly, feeling a bit more frantic.

"Well, it wasn't the Communist Party that sent you here," Bix replied tenderly.

"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 sling on the table next to Bix.

"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 Bix 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 settee in the room. There was a balloon on the settee.

"If you're thinking about picking up that balloon, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Bix yawned offhandedly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the balloon 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 rolled back to the bed and sat down. His wrist was beginning to rot.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Bix. He laughed out loud, then exploded "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 an owl back there in the pet shop." Bix rapped his fingers on the table beside the sling.

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

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

"Rico Swoopes," 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 sophisticated 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 stalking on. Nice talking to you, Bix."

Although his wrist was still rotting, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the sling. Bix stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly smart manner. Ignoring Bix's pensive leer, he vigorously jogged out of the room.

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