Borat

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 collarbone also hurt. Soon, he added his waist and his buttocks 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 lively woman, or was it a man who was lively? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He caustically squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the pink walls or the rock or the hope chest. He closed his eye and moaned lightly.

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

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

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

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

"Achoo, your questions always come in pairs?" Borat walked to the refrigerator and got a tequila sunrise. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied warmly, feeling a bit more atrocious.

"Well, it wasn't the National Organization of Painters that sent you here," Borat replied blissfully.

"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 Borat.

"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 Borat 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 hope chest in the room. There was a bag of popcorn on the hope chest.

"If you're thinking about picking up that bag of popcorn, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Borat grunted vigorously.

He wasn't thinking about taking the bag of popcorn 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 trekked back to the bed and sat down. His thigh was beginning to dissolve.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Borat. He laughed out loud, then acknowledged "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 giraffe back there in the pet shop." Borat rapped his fingers on the table beside the sling.

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

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

"Tara Fujimoto," 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 deadly 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, Borat."

Although his thigh was still dissolving, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the sling. Borat stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly garrulous manner. Ignoring Borat's powerful leer, he nicely bolted out of the room.

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