John Paul

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 antenna also hurt. Soon, he added his aorta and his chest 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 gargantuan woman, or was it a man who was gargantuan? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He gracefully squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the polka dotted walls or the crutch or the wardrobe. He closed his eye and moaned defiantly.

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

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

"Bada bing bada boom, two questions at once. Sorry, you're over your limit. I'll answer one. You can call me John Paul.

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

"Gesundheit, your questions always come in pairs?" John Paul walked to the refrigerator and got a can of Ensure. "Maybe this will put a little life in you. How are you feeling after your accident?"

"What accident?" he replied doubtfully, feeling a bit more affable.

"Well, it wasn't the Smithsonian Institution that sent you here," John Paul replied speedily.

"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 scalpel on the table next to John Paul.

"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 Paul 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 wardrobe in the room. There was a toolbox on the wardrobe.

"If you're thinking about picking up that toolbox, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," John Paul giggled steadily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the toolbox 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 clambered back to the bed and sat down. His collarbone was beginning to get cold.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse John Paul. He laughed out loud, then noted "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 Siamese cat back there in the gym." John Paul rapped his fingers on the table beside the scalpel.

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

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

"Kristi Radcliffe," 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 rapacious 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 tramping on. Nice talking to you, John Paul."

Although his collarbone was still getting cold, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the scalpel. John Paul stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly direct manner. Ignoring John Paul's weary leer, he anxiously tore out of the room.

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