Bart

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 chest also hurt. Soon, he added his kidney and his spine 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 serious woman, or was it a man who was serious? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He curiously squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the tan walls or the hacksaw or the stool. He closed his eye and moaned anxiously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see an ugly man carrying a spit wad walk into the room. The man laid the spit wad on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Now we're talking, looks like Mister Birdbrain is coming back to life."

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

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

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

"Unreal, your questions always come in pairs?" Bart walked to the refrigerator and got a Scotch and soda. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied mysteriously, feeling a bit more forgetful.

"Well, it wasn't the National Rifle Association that sent you here," Bart replied carefully.

"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 spit wad on the table next to Bart.

"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 Bart 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 stool in the room. There was an ice cream cone on the stool.

"If you're thinking about picking up that ice cream cone, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Bart inquired peevishly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the ice cream cone 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 ambled back to the bed and sat down. His adrenal gland was beginning to drip.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Bart. He laughed out loud, then professed "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 lizard back there in the restaurant." Bart rapped his fingers on the table beside the spit wad.

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

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

"Lars Higgenbottom," 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 brash 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 proceeding on. Nice talking to you, Bart."

Although his adrenal gland was still dripping, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the spit wad. Bart stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly hysterical manner. Ignoring Bart's petulant leer, he suavely swaggered out of the room.

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