Edmond

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 eyebrow also hurt. Soon, he added his pride and his ear 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 conscientious woman, or was it a man who was conscientious? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He thankfully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the violet walls or the ingot of plutonium or the desk. He closed his eye and moaned hungrily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see an undersized man carrying a Colt 45 walk into the room. The man laid the Colt 45 on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Uh, looks like Mister Blockhead is coming back to life."

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied flightily, feeling a bit more muddled.

"Well, it wasn't the Impossible Missions Force that sent you here," Edmond replied blindly.

"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 Colt 45 on the table next to Edmond.

"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 Edmond 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 desk in the room. There was a key ring on the desk.

"If you're thinking about picking up that key ring, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Edmond spewed delicately.

He wasn't thinking about taking the key ring 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 dashed back to the bed and sat down. His toupee was beginning to spin.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Edmond. He laughed out loud, then sniffed "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 weasel back there in the dry cleaner." Edmond rapped his fingers on the table beside the Colt 45.

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

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

"Avery Verma," 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 rude 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 slinking on. Nice talking to you, Edmond."

Although his toupee was still spinning, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the Colt 45. Edmond stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly sleek manner. Ignoring Edmond's peculiar leer, he dolorously sprinted out of the room.

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