John

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 calf also hurt. Soon, he added his toenail and his nose 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 gentle woman, or was it a man who was gentle? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He boisterously squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the chartreuse walls or the battery or the workbench. He closed his eye and moaned fearlessly.

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

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

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

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

"Congratulations, your questions always come in pairs?" John walked to the refrigerator and got a root beer float. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied gratefully, feeling a bit more impish.

"Well, it wasn't the Audubon Society that sent you here," John replied suspiciously.

"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 defibrillator on the table next to John.

"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 John 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 workbench in the room. There was a fire hose on the workbench.

"If you're thinking about picking up that fire hose, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," John babbled queerly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the fire hose 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 trotted back to the bed and sat down. His belly was beginning to writhe.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse John. He laughed out loud, then remarked "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 goat back there in the fabric store." John rapped his fingers on the table beside the defibrillator.

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

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

"Maybie Grover," 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 depraved 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 setting out on. Nice talking to you, John."

Although his belly was still writhing, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the defibrillator. John stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly bad manner. Ignoring John's hungry leer, he blindly skipped out of the room.

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