Buster

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 claw also hurt. Soon, he added his kidney and his wig 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 lively woman, or was it a man who was lively? Anyway, he had some recollection of looking for something in the city. He zestily squinted through one eye. Nothing he saw made sense; not the brown walls or the cowbell or the washing machine. He closed his eye and moaned wearily.

Just then, he heard the door open. He reopened his eye to see a feeble man carrying a torpedo walk into the room. The man laid the torpedo on the small table beside the door and peered at him. "Leapin' lizards, looks like Mister Wraith is coming back to life."

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

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

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

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

"What accident?" he replied boisterously, feeling a bit more playful.

"Well, it wasn't the Government of Mongolia that sent you here," Buster replied fervently.

"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 torpedo on the table next to Buster.

"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 Buster 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 washing machine in the room. There was a magnifying glass on the washing machine.

"If you're thinking about picking up that magnifying glass, just be aware that it's exclusively for my use," Buster explained fearlessly.

He wasn't thinking about taking the magnifying glass 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 bounded back to the bed and sat down. His abdomen was beginning to thicken.

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

This seemed to genuinely amuse Buster. He laughed out loud, then uttered "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 raccoon back there in the ice cream parlor." Buster rapped his fingers on the table beside the torpedo.

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

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

"Abraham Plunkett," 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 stern 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 tearing on. Nice talking to you, Buster."

Although his abdomen was still thickening, he started moving toward the door, his eyes on the torpedo. Buster stood up and opened the door for him in an oddly happy manner. Ignoring Buster's decisive leer, he nervously scurried out of the room.

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