Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Tastes like trouble: IX

He closed the little book and looked hard at me. “You know I want to believe you. Something like this could mean a great deal to a lot of people. Even if the gold has already been recovered its likely to lead us to some very bad people.”

That's interesting, I was under the impression that the bad people didn't have it, hence my extreme makeover. I pointed at my eye, the swelling had gone down. I was now sporting a very purple and yellow face. I looked ready for the big game, it was too bad we weren't at the Mertodome.

There are all kinds of bad people.” My fork had been resting on the edge of the plate. “If you are done, there is someone I want you to meet.”

I shrugged, I could have gone for a slice of pie but my gluttony was usurped by a general sense of guilt. Holocaust gold and murderous Nazi spawn suddenly filled my stomach with stones. I pushed my plate aside and tented my napkin on the plate signaling my unconditional surrender to what remained on the plate. We got up and left, someone other than me payed.

On the street I felt charitable and informed a bum that he was about fourty years to young to have been in Vietnam. As we pulled away I watched as he gave me the bird and change his sign to say Gettysburg. He must have been an art student, I must have missed his point. I am not sure he had a point.

We didn't drive far. Before long we were pulling into an underground parking garage. It was under a nice large plain looking building that had government written all over it. We took an elevator up to the seventh floor. A secretary greeted the UIO and handed me an icepack. I tried to protest telling her the swelling had gone down. It seemed like the place was swarming with UIO men.

John, they have been waiting for you. Trotter is pissed, Gregs is worried.”

I have some answers...” John Said and then pointed to me, “He has some answers.”

I shrugged and mouthed its in his little book, the book has the answers, pointing at his pocket with the hand that wasn't holding the icepack to my eye. My nurse took my real nurse to sit down in the lobby. And by my real nurse I mean my girlfriend. Who still happened to be with us, we didn't forget about her or drop her off or anything.... And I guess if the UIO man has a name everybody might as well know that her name is Karen. Karen went to the a waiting room or lobby or someones office or soemthing with the secretary. The secretary doesn't get a name.

John turned as we went into the meeting room. “Jess, can you get me the files off my desk regarding this case?”

Well shit. Ok, the secretary gets a name too. The secretary's name is Jess, and she is getting files off of John's desk.

She replied, “Sure John.”

It was like they were flaunting their identities.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Personal note.

I am working on something new/old offline. I have notes on this idea going back way too long.I will continue to write 'improve' style like I have been. We will see what kind of ideas I work out.

I bought a white board to put some of the important ideas on it so I can see them all the time. I wanted a bigger one, but 3x4 foot was the largest they stocked in the store. I am going to end up getting a bigger one. I just don't have the attention span to keep it all in my head.

I welcome feedback.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Tastes like trouble: VIII

We pulled off the curb with a reasonable amount of haste. A Nazi car swung in and scooped up the two on the sidewalk. The UIO man cursed and accelerated as fast as traffic would allow. “What the hell? You tell me you have nothing to tell me and give me some bullshit story. I come out of your place and see these assholes,” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder pointing to the car riding the tale-gate. “I followed them to your girl's hospital.” He took a quick left after the light had turned red. The cross traffic nipped the left rear of the car, everyone and their cousin honked, but the Nazi car had been successfully dodged

“I don't like playing catchup.” Then you must hate all this detective work. He threw the car into park. My poor head slammed into the seat. I was certain that I had received irreparable damage. “Not when the answer is sitting in my car. Tell me why they like you so much, or the both of you can pound sand and I will go back to following them.” He looked in his driver side mirror the traffic was clearing up and the light was going to change any moment.

Lets get some pancakes. I wasn't sure if I had said it out loud but the car was moving again and we were still inside. Someone had said something, and I only hoped we were destine for a short stack.

I really only had to say Hitlers gold and we were chummy like the old days. I got to see his little notebook again, his tiny pair of glasses. I was the only one eating... and the only one talking, so things were moving at a slow pace.

My research, is not directly related to and easily confused with with... it's was about escaping war criminals. I exaggerated on one of my updates that involved a lost German U boat and the cargo it carried.

The UIO man wrote that down.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Just too many ideas.

So, I want to write all kinds of stuff. But this is going to get messy if I do it all here. So, I am splitting posts between this and another site. Trouble, and Grace will stay here, and something else is going to go somewhere else. The Ocean is in my Lunchbox is hopefully going to be a collaborative project. For now, its just me.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Tastes like trouble: VII

The UIO man left the door hanging and I went to pack a bag and find men’s clothing to change into. We would leave once she got home. There was a camp grounds a few hours from the city that had cabins to rent. It would be a good place to rest up and sort things out in my head. Oh, my poor head. I had lost count of how many times I had been knocked out over the past thirty six hours, four maybe? Any more than twice was serious enough. Trying to figure out how many was an exercise in futility. I might as well have been in a coma. I knock on the doorframe.

I sit by the window with my backpack. The few things I had in her apartment fit into the one bag. I didn’t dare go to my own. With the way they searched this place, I expected my building to be leveled. In relative safety the few oxygenated cells in may start going to work. Setting aside the obtuse reality of modern Nazi, secret multi-national detectives, and Hitler’s secret gold, left me to realize that all I had was the obtuse realities and the further realization that no amount of trash talk was going to get me out of the situation smelling like new car.

I check the wall clock. She was close to running late. The clock was shaped like a cat, its eyes scanning the room once a second. I questioned him, why he hadn’t backed me up earlier. Left, right, left, right, tick, tock, tick, the time began to wear me anxious. I tossed my papers into the bag and made my way for the stairs.

It was stupid to have waited so long to get her and get out. The entire morning! Giving them a chance to notice me gone, to go look for me, for her. I found myself running down the street despite my injuries. My feet hitting the ground twice as often as the cat scanned the kitchen. I stop, and stand holding my knees as I wait for the train. My head had opened up from the sweat and the pressure, I was dripping. A homeless man reeking of urine gives me some space. He train pulls in. Her train continues on. The platform clears and she is not here.

I remember the sound of my feet slapping against the pavement. I looked like I was running from a serial killer. Half dressed, bleeding, sweating, and sobbing. I looked like a drug addict after a hit and run. Three nine minute miles later I am in front of her hospital. Out of shape, gasping and heaving. I throw up. Through my blurry eyes I see the big and thin man come out the front door. They are alone, unless they get to me. I turn to run and nearly pass out.

I turn back to see them even closer. They are acting very casual, I must look worse than I imagined. They would be on me soon, and it was unlikely that I was going to be able to put up a fight. They split up and move to both ends of the sidewalk. Doubled over I turn and look into traffic. If I make a scene, and don’t get hit, I might get out of this.

I hit the curb and a two toned green Buick nearly hits me. The breaks make a louder noise than the horn and the UIO man sticks his head out the window. Through the rear window I see her climb over the front seats and pop the back door open. “Lets go!” one or both of them yell. I must have looked like the happiest man in the world.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Tastes like trouble: V to the VII

The big one pulled me out of the trunk like wet laundry. We were on the docks. I had never been in this part of town, but I knew where it was. It worried me a little that they were not concerned with me seeing where we were going. Getting roughed up is one thing, kidnapped goes a little further. Getting murdered was crossing a line for me.

The big one felt me consider making a run for it. He had his paw on the back of my neck and was gently directing me to one of the larger ships. When I turned slightly in the opposite direction, he showed me how willing he was to pop my head off like a dandy lion.

“Do you know what this is?” The slimy one was always asking questions. But it worked for him; the big guy had been providing me with their answers. They were perfect for each other.

I chanced a wise ass response as I assumed it was a rhetorical question. Boat?

“Sure, it’s a boat.” The sarcasm dripped from his words. The man literally oozed. He never answered his own question; my answer must have been good enough. We boarded and passed some men with guns. Same haircuts, same tattoos, same guns, same dead eyes. They might have been serious German treasure hunters, but based on their style they seemed organized crimey. I mean things were really leaning towards Nazis, but come on, Nazis? The news headline ran through my mind, with the type writer noise and everything. “Grad student kidnapped by the Nazis in search for Hitler’s lost gold.”

They put me in a room, it smelled like shit, feces, as in someone defecated here. They sat me in a chair that had one leg maliciously bend out of place. It teetered, and clicked against the metal floor. They hit me a few more times to convince me of their hospitality. I made a mental note to add them to my Christmas card list. They left, I tried the door but it seemed locked, or jammed. Using my advanced reasoning skills, I came to the conclusion that anything they weren’t willing to do in the apartment was bound to happen here. I checked my wallet for my insurance card.

Later, a new friend came into the small room. He had the same head as the others, but was dressed more appropriately. Wife beater t shirt, leather gloves, foreign looking jeans, tats, lots of tats. He didn’t say much, almost nothing at all. But despite our slow start we developed a rhythm. “Where is the gold?” He would ask me, then he would hit me, and we would start over again. At some point one of us lost the point. Depending on what he wanted out of this exchange, it could have been my misunderstanding. But at some point he stopped waiting for me to respond to his question, and then after a while the question itself disappeared.

In his defense, and I am not necessarily saying this is where our communicative breakdown occurred, the answer to “where is the gold” is not “fucked your sister”.