As toxic rain drizzles down the warm windows on this miserable evening, I find myself sitting between two thin men whose eyes are lost in shadows. Crew-cuts and black ties befit their stoic facades. What do they want with me, anyway?
“What do you want with me, anyway?” I offer to the darkness of the cab.
A voice returns from the front right seat.
“Oh you know, Tommy... you know.”
I can only see the man’s right ear as he favors the window. Occasionally, the silhouetted knuckles of his hand make an appearance as he takes a puff of his cigarette.
He exhales loudly. Smoke drifts over the seat and into my face.
I hunch over and cough into my knees. Tweedle-Dee sends a sharp blow to my jaw and Tweedle-Dum pulls me upright again by my shirt collar. One of my molars feels a bit loose now. My head throbs. I can feel every rut in the road beneath us.
The voice from the front seat continues. He sounds kind of like Ed Harris.
“The Boss wants to talk to you. He’s... displeased.”
A subtle taste of blood festers on the back of my tongue. I gather up the ooz and spit it into the carpet between my feet. Tweedle-Dum turns to hit me, but our eyes meet – or at least, I assume they meet as I glare deep into the shadowed face. Either way, my message gets across to him – don’t touch me. He sits back, and I decide to throw in a little sarcasm. Let’s see how much I can get away with.
“Well, I tried to tell her that he prefers boys, but she just wouldn’t have it.”
That much.
No amount of glaring can stop Tweedle-Dum from clocking me in the forehead and right into Tweedle-Dee’s knee. Okay – emphysema, cracked jaw, splitting headache, and a black eye. I think that’s just about enough.
The right ear continues talking, unaffected.
“He says you’re too sloppy. Says you tend to leave a mess behind.”
Yeah, it’s time.
“Oh really,” I chuckle. “A mess like this?”
With that, I elbow both of my backseat buddies in their stomachs, jamming my heel into Tweedle-Dee’s shin for good measure. My free foot jabs into the back of the driver’s head and then swings around to send Mr. Right-Ear through his favorite window.
The car is out of control now. I have only seconds to my name.
Tweedle-Dee and -Dum are recovering and reaching for their guns. I manage to uppercut Tweedle-Dee and climb over onto the driver’s chest, my back to the steering wheel. The click alerts me and I look up in time to see Tweedle-Dum pointing a gun six inches from my face. My hand fumbles underneath the seat.
Damn it, where is the recline switch?
BLAM!
The windshield cracks behind me. That was close, but I’ve had closer.
My fingers find the switch and the seat falls back, knocking the gun from Dum’s hand. Leaving the brute in shock, I open the driver-side door and roll out of the car just before it plows through a suburban porch.
That white picket fence will never be the same.
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