Phil

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 toupee also hurt. Soon, he added his eye and his hand 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 sober woman, or was it a man who was sober? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He fiercely squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the olive drab walls or the washrag or the casket. He closed his eye and moaned solemnly.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a redheaded man carrying a Colt 45 walk into the room. The man laid the Colt 45 on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Get out, looks like Mister Simpleton is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Rooster feathers, your questions always come in pairs?" Phil walked to the refrigerator and got a V8. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied offhandedly, feeling a bit more demented.

"Well, it wasn't the International Brotherhood of Pawnbrokers that sent you here," Phil replied impatiently.

"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 Colt 45 on the table next to Phil.

"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 Phil 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 casket in the room. There was a cream puff on the casket.

"If you're thinking about picking up that cream puff, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Phil divulged daringly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the cream puff 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 loped back to the bed and sat down. His palm was beginning to stiffen.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Phil. He laughed out loud, then chuckled "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 horsie back there in the fortune teller shop." Phil rapped his fingers on the table beside the Colt 45.

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

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

"Albert Lions," 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 sinister 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, Phil."

Although his palm was still stiffening, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the Colt 45. Phil stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly cowardly manner. Ignoring Phil's enraged leer, he proudly flounced out of the room.

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