A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter VIII: Day/Page 89 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . “We’ll see about that.” The Captain shakes the contents of her knapsack onto the steel table; ransacks through the new clothes from the boutique; scrutinizes the fruit and sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and even examines the bottles of water.
(What a dick!)
“So where’s the gold?” he demands.
(Screw you!) She understands, but says nothing. Her anger rising.
The Captain crosses over to the one-way mirror, taps on the glass and gestures for those watching to join him. Moments later the tall thin Chihuahua who had relayed the events at the bank enters, followed by a massive, burly Mastiff with shaved head, blue and orange tattoos around his stump-like neck, and thick beefy arms inked with more tattoos.
(Oh, hell, this can’t be good.)
“Hold her,” the Captain tells the baldheaded Mastiff. He jerks her up, pining her arms in back. She doesn’t resist.
(This is getting out of hand. What should I do? Come on, think!)
“Search her,” the Captain says to the tall thin Chihuahua.
He finds the chain-mail purse in her pants pocket and hands it to the Captain. “That’s all she has.”
The Mastiff drops Sofia roughly back in the chair.
“Mine. Those things are mine,” she says firmly.
“Be quiet!” shouts the Captain. He shakes the coins and diamonds out of the purse, sending them clattering loudly onto the polished steel table. The harsh bright light of the interrogation room makes the jewels and gold sparkle like pirate’s treasure on the shiny table. Before him is more wealth than he has ever seen. It must be ten, maybe twenty year’s salary, he guesses. The two others are equally awed.
Sofia reaches for the purse. “Mine—I need to buy a boat.”
“I told you to sit down!” bellows the Captain, drawing back his arm and striking Sofia forcefully across her face with the back of his fist, knocking her into the chair.
(What the hell! Ok, I’ve had enough of this shit!)
The blow didn’t actually hurt her. Because of the force-field, she hardly felt a thing. But the sudden violence shocked her, and so she had involuntarily recoiled when he struck, making it look like the blow had its intended effect.
(I’m done with this nonsense. I don’t have time to screw around with this brutal moron any longer. I need to leave and find Dr. Thrush.) She glances at the clock on her bracelet—less than 20 hours left to retrieve the pod. A renewed sense of anxiety strains her chest, tightens her gut.
“You have somewhere else to go? A hot date?” sneers the Captain.
The two other guards snicker obsequiously. If they play their cards right, maybe some of the treasure could be theirs.
“You’re not enjoying your date with us here? Maybe we could spice it up for you with a little round of water-boarding,” he says, gesturing to the bench, towels, and bucket of water off to her side. “How does that sound? You ready for a swim?”
Sofia didn’t know what he meant, but the water made her uneasy, since that was about the only thing that could kill her with the lariat on.
More snickering from the others.
She contemplates what to do. (Reasoning with these imbeciles is obviously pointless. But if I use the lariat, someone could get killed. But I can’t sit here and do nothing, either. What a goddamn mess.) Anxiety flares anew. She glances again at the clock on her bracelet. . . .
TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Gregory James All rights reserved