Lonnie

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 thyroid gland also hurt. Soon, he added his wrist and his palm 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 brave woman, or was it a man who was brave? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He suddenly squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the sparkly walls or the bag or the bookcase. He closed his eye and moaned caustically.

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

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied gently, feeling a bit more sketchy.

"Well, it wasn't the Society of Football coaches that sent you here," Lonnie replied tensely.

"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 cleaver on the table next to Lonnie.

"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 Lonnie 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 bookcase in the room. There was a calling card on the bookcase.

"If you're thinking about picking up that calling card, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Lonnie stated clumsily.

He wasn't thinking about taking the calling card 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 hobbled back to the bed and sat down. His eyelash 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 Lonnie. He laughed out loud, then sighed "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 panda back there in the hair salon." Lonnie rapped his fingers on the table beside the cleaver.

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

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

"Melanie Ryan," 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 pert 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 trotting on. Nice talking to you, Lonnie."

Although his eyelash was still getting cold, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the cleaver. Lonnie stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly choleric manner. Ignoring Lonnie's childish leer, he tearfully scooted out of the room.

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