A satire of dysfunctional politics and economic disparity.
Chapter VIII: Day/Page 92 CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY. . . . “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!”
His face is ashen. His eyes dart down to the Captain lying unconscious on the floor, then over to the Mastiff, twice his size, crumpled in the corner oozing blood. The thin guard is too frightened to move. He wants to, but can’t. Terror holds him fast.
“Now!” shouts Sofia.
The harsh sound jolts his body, loosening fear’s paralyzing grip. He taps numbers into a keypad on the wall, there’s a clicking sound, and the door swings open.
“Thank you,” Sofia says and walks out. (Finally! I’m out of here.)
After she turns the corner and slips from view, the tall thin Chihuahua slumps against the wall for support, eyes closed, head and forearm resting against the cool cement. He sucks in a long deep breath, pushes out an exhausted sigh of relief. “Whew… that was close,” he mumbles.
An instant later Sofia returns. She taps him lightly on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”
His head snaps up. His eyes pop open, flushed with fear. She is standing right next to him now, face to face. Her mesmerizing, terrifying green eyes only inches away from his. An involuntary stream of warm urine stains his crotch and trickles down his leg.
“Is there a backdoor out of here that I can use instead?” she asks him.
His shaky finger points to a corridor leading around the corner.
As she turns to go, Sofia smells the strong odor of steamy urine. She looks down, sees the wet stain on his pants and the spreading puddle darkening the cement floor by his feet, inching slowly toward her new boots.
“Gross!” she says. (That’s disgusting!)
A minute later she vanishes into the jungle behind the police station. . . .
END OF CHAPTER VIII. TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW IN CHAPTER IX: Faith-Based Law
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