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 thigh also hurt. Soon, he added his dignity and his claw 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 an arrogant woman, or was it a man who was arrogant? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He strictly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the peach walls or the fire hose or the filing cabinet. He closed his eye and moaned diligently.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a dainty man carrying a silver bullet walk into the room. The man laid the silver bullet on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Par bleu, looks like Mister Fool is coming back to life."

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

"For Pete's sake, 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 rest. He immediately opened both eyes and asked, "What am I here for? Can I have something to drink?"

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

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

"Well, it wasn't the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster that sent you here," Borat replied majestically.

"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 silver bullet 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 filing cabinet in the room. There was a Barbie doll on the filing cabinet.

"If you're thinking about picking up that Barbie doll, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Borat screeched madly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the Barbie doll 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 whirled back to the bed and sat down. His collarbone was beginning to relax.

"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 barked "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 mongoose back there in the auto repair shop." Borat rapped his fingers on the table beside the silver bullet.

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

"You tripped on a pair of knitting needles. You took a bad fall. Who is this friend you were looking for?"

"Alf Bunyan," 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 ambitious 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 sneaking on. Nice talking to you, Borat."

Although his collarbone was still relaxing, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the silver bullet. Borat stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly masculine manner. Ignoring Borat's cowardly leer, he bravely scooted out of the room.

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