A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter VIII: Day/Page 90 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . “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.
“Boys, I think maybe our little miss ‘nothing-no-do’ wants to leave. I sure hope we’re not keeping you from anything important, are we?”
“Yes, actually you are,” says Sofia, matter-of-factly.
Perhaps it was her growing impatience, or her rising anger and anxiety, or her renewed sense of urgency and concern for Dr. Analore Thrush, or the back-handed slap across the face, or something else, but whatever it was, the deep reservoir of foreign words and phrases that had remained frustratingly elusive all day, suddenly erupts like a fountain and a wellspring of fluency gushes out, as specific synapses in her brain align, connect, and fire.
“I don’t have time for this bullshit anymore,” she exclaims flatly. “I’m done screwing around with you guys. You three morons can all go to hell. I’m out of here!”
She stands, scrapes the coins and diamonds off the table back into the chain-mail purse, tucks the purse into her pants pocket and begins packing the rest of her things neatly into her knapsack.
The three policemen stand there dumbfounded. The thin one giggles nervously, until he sees rage billowing up in the Captain’s eyes. With sudden ferocity the Captain lunges at Sofia and backhands her forcefully across the face. “Listen hear you goddamn little bit—”
And just as the word “bitch” is leaving his lips, the back of his fist makes contact with her jaw. But this time she doesn’t recoil; in fact, she leans in, thrusting her jaw forward. There is a loud brittle crack, like dry twigs snapping, as the metacarpal bones in the Bulldog’s hand splinter and shatter.
From the crying and wailing that followed you would have thought that his hand had been cleanly cut off. Invariably the biggest bullying brutes are always the biggest blubbering babies when the tables of fate are turned.
Sofia folds her new leather coat and places it neatly into her knapsack. She slips in the fruit and water bottles too.
The Captain, bent over and clutching his broken hand, shouts at the other two, “Get her! Don’t just stand there! Get her, goddamn-it!”
The burly Mastiff with tattoos moves first. He darts behind her while she is packing and punches Sofia severely in the back of her head, instantly turning his fist into a pink bag of broken bones. Now it’s his turn to wail like a baby.
Sofia turns around to see what the tap on the back of her head was, and sees the Mastiff wailing. (That hurt, huh?—good! I’m glad. You guys deserve it!)
The thin one fumbles to pull his pistol from the holster. But he has trouble keeping his hand from shaking and can’t get the strap loose. . . .
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