A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter VIII: Day/Page 88 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . Sofia nods, repeating the Captain’s words. “Where can I buy a boat?—is what I asking.”
“I don’t know. There are lots of different boats. Some big ones, some small. Some motored, some not. What kind do you need, and what for?”
Sofia shakes her head. He was speaking too quickly again.
“Why—you—need—boat?” he asks, emphasizing each word.
“Ah.” She understands, but lacks the words to explain, so she shakes her head instead. (I can’t possibly explain all that.)
“Don’t want to tell me, huh? Ok, then where did you get the money?”
The Captain points to the cash in her hand. “Money—where—from?”
“Oh. Money from bank.”
“You got the money from a bank? You robbed a bank, I see. Ok, now we’re making progress. So you robbed a bank and now you need a boat to get away. I knew it! This is all fitting together nicely. So which bank did you rob?”
The door of the interrogation room opens and a tall thin guard with a Chihuahua-like face leans in. (Oh, great… more idiots joining the party.)
“Excuse me, Captain,” he says, “I know how much you hate being interrupted while you’re working, but I thought you should know that we received a call earlier today from Mr. Cocosaco, over at the FairLoan bank, saying that a young woman—a woman with striking green eyes—exchanged a gold coin at his bank this morning. A coin unlike any he had ever seen before. So when I heard her say she got the money at the bank—well, anyway, I thought you should know. Sounds like the same woman. She has pretty amazing green eyes, doesn’t she?”
“Ok, thanks Corporal. Yes, that’s very helpful.”
The guard turns and closes the door.
“So you exchanged a gold coin for the money?” says the Captain. “Contraband gold, no doubt. Gold stolen from the mines of New Favela City—stolen from the legal, rightful owners. The penalty for that is death. Let’s see if you have any more.” He snatches her knapsack off the table.
(Hey, that’s mine!) Sofia reaches out for it, but the Bulldog Captain shoves her roughly back into the chair. (What’s your problem? I haven’t done anything wrong.)
“Sit down,” he bellows. “Or I’ll knock your goddamn head off. You damn rebel slackers are all the same, always making trouble. Instigating mine workers. Stealing gold. Causing problems for those who invest in our economy and give us jobs. You’re a leech on society.”
“Mine,” Sofia says firmly. (Those are my things, you asshole.)
“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. . . .
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