Tastes like trouble: X

Trotter, Gregs, John, Jess, they didn't matter, maybe not even Karen. She would beat me worse than anyone else if she heard me think that. We worked, there was something about out push and pull that just made it all fit nice and snug, like a pair of Chinese finger cuffs or something, the more we pulled at each other the tighter we got. Maybe it was time we officially moved in together. I wondered if my apartment was in worse shape than hers. It probably was.

Gregs or Trotter, I never payed close enough attention to be sure, was leaning on the table yelling into my face. It must have been dehydrated because his spitel never actual hit me, it flung bout his mouth like a crazy dog or something.

Did I miss something? Am I a suspect of something, or... Tman, and ahh Gman, did I offend? Don't worry UIO man over here isn't going to expense the breakfast. Its all good.

“You must be the dumbest college boy I have ever fucking seen. How does a dipshit like you get to be wanted by the largest organized clandestine fascists Nazi motherfucking movements since the 50's?”

You haven't seen the little book have you. John? I gestured like Vanna White to the silent man standing by the door.

“Sir-”

“Get the FUCK out of this room Smith.” I was beginning to think it was Trotter with the foul mouth. It was probably rooted in childhood trauma stemming from his name. As they say, a long time ago our last names were a way of stating our profession. This agent was probably from a long line of leaky assholes.

Smith left the room and Gregs followed him, he came back almost immediately carrying the little book.

“So Shithead, whats so goddamn important about you that Smith out there broke his covert status to save your ass two, three times?”

I blew him.

Trotter hit the desk instead of me. Come on man, the desk isn't giving you the run around! MEEEE. You want MEEEE. The desk is innocent, I'll tell you what you want. Just don't hit the desk. I beg of you.

“Fuck this guy, I'm going to kill him. I am going to fucking kill him.”

Ding* subconsciously a bell rang signaling the end of round one. Gregs tapped him on the shoulder and they moved to the corner of the room an whispered at each other. Gregs came out, Trotter stayed in for a time out.

“Were you telling him the truth?” He held the book up. I dropped my guard.

Yeah, I mean as much as I think there were more subs than the history books say. And that one of them had gold.

“Why weren't the authorities notified?”

Notified of what? That a treasure hunter told his grade school buddy about a buried treasure myth? I donno, maybe it because it turned into my thesis and he hadn't found it yet. I didn't care if it was blood money. Fuck, its either on the bottom of the ocean or not, me flapping my jaw about would one do me harm.

Trotter came out of his corner for round two, “Yeah, keep flapping it and it will get harmed.”

Screw you Hershey. I let one update out on the thing and my life has been trashed and I have been far to close to death for my liking. I have been a sport about the whole thing so far. So you take a hike bring John Smith back in here.

Trotter left after looking to Gregs for confirmation. TKO fifty-two seconds into the second round and I moved up in the rankings.