Juan

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 spinal cord and his wig 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 cautious woman, or was it a man who was cautious? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He dolefully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the striped walls or the fish bowl or the billiard table. He closed his eye and moaned positively.

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

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

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

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

"Bravo, your questions always come in pairs?" Juan walked to the refrigerator and got an ice cream soda. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied crazily, feeling a bit more rapacious.

"Well, it wasn't the Meerkats Auxiliary that sent you here," Juan replied miserably.

"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 street sweeper on the table next to Juan.

"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 Juan 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 billiard table in the room. There was a picture on the billiard table.

"If you're thinking about picking up that picture, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Juan recited wearily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the picture 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 barrelled back to the bed and sat down. His wrist was beginning to tremble.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Juan. He laughed out loud, then wailed "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 canary back there in the mortuary." Juan rapped his fingers on the table beside the street sweeper.

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

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

"Jennessa Brandon," 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 gentle 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 zooming on. Nice talking to you, Juan."

Although his wrist was still trembling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the street sweeper. Juan stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly passionate manner. Ignoring Juan's powerful leer, he offhandedly sprinted out of the room.

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