Brandon

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 bladder also hurt. Soon, he added his paw and his hip 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 emotional woman, or was it a man who was emotional? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He majestically squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the olive drab walls or the Barbie doll or the stool. He closed his eye and moaned vigorously.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a dashing man carrying a piercing stare walk into the room. The man laid the piercing stare on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Say what, looks like Mister Ignoramous is coming back to life."

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

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

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?"

"The joke's on me, your questions always come in pairs?" Brandon walked to the refrigerator and got a glass of tomato juice. "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 Government of Japan that sent you here," Brandon replied sympathetically.

"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 piercing stare on the table next to Brandon.

"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 Brandon 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 a sack of potatoes on the stool.

"If you're thinking about picking up that sack of potatoes, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Brandon joked dreamily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the sack of potatoes 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 lumbered back to the bed and sat down. His femur was beginning to roll.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Brandon. He laughed out loud, then panted "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 boar back there in the clothing store." Brandon rapped his fingers on the table beside the piercing stare.

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

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

"Arturo Bianchi," 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 stinky 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 scurrying on. Nice talking to you, Brandon."

Although his femur was still rolling, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the piercing stare. Brandon stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly quiet manner. Ignoring Brandon's lazy leer, he excitedly swaggered out of the room.

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