A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter VIII: Day/Page 91 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . 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.
Sofia places the sandwiches wrapped in wax-paper carefully on top of her clothes so they won’t get crushed and cinches the knapsack closed.
Having gained his composure somewhat, the Captain makes a headlong charge to tackle her, but she extends her arm out quickly, like a footballer, halting him abruptly with her palm to his forehead, dropping him senseless to the floor. (What an idiot!)
He later told others that it felt like running full-speed, headfirst, into a metal pole buried deep in cement.
Sofia glances around like one does when leaving a hotel-room to make sure she has not missed anything, checks that nothing fell on the floor, looks behind the chair, then walks over and tries the door. It’s locked.
“Open it, please,” she says to the thin guard still struggling with his gun.
“Don’t—don’t—don’t move,” he says, finally wrestling the gun free from its holster and waving it unsteadily at her.
(You can’t be serious. Will these stooges never stop?)
“Here, give it to me,” says the Mastiff, trying to snatch the gun away from his colleague. But his hand is shattered, his fingers all crooked and bent, so the gun slips from his grasp and clatters noisily onto the cement floor.
Sofia kicks the pistol to the far corner of the room, then gestures to the door. “I said open it!” she shouts to the thin one.
He rushes to the door, but the big Mastiff makes a dash for Sofia and grabs her from behind in a bear-hug, lifts her off the ground and tries crushing her with his powerful arms. It feels like he’s squeezing a statue.
It does not hurt Sofia, but she can’t free herself either. (Oh, great. Now this moron has me pinned.)
“Put me down, you idiot,” she says.
He redoubles his effort to crush her, shaking her roughly side-to-side like a rag-doll, groaning and straining with the added exertion.
Not knowing what else to do, Sofia head-butts him in the face with the back of her head. There is a hard crunching sound, followed by a muffled groan. The tattooed Mastiff drops Sofia to her feet and staggers back, his nose and mouth gurgling viscous blood. “Ya’ bwoke ma’ face,” he splutters through crumpled cartilage and shattered teeth.
“I told you, I don’t have time for this shit. Now sit down!”
He stumbles back against the wall, slides down until he is seated on the floor with his arms on his knees, trying to staunch the blood with his one good hand. But with each heavy gasping breath the slippery red fluid bubbles through his fingers and down his neck and chest, settling in a dark frothy pool on the cement floor between his legs.
“You!” Sofia points to the thin guard. “Open the door!” . . .
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