Disclaimer: I do not take credit for the agent. The titles are credited to Lewis Carroll.
Rating: PG for mentioning the bodily fluid "blood." Don't be scared.
Author's note: If you as a person cannot cope with sentence fragments, I suggest you skip this chapter. There are two of the in it. :-) And, as always, thank you for reading.
*The Jaws that bite, the Claws that catch!*
I took stock of the situation. Then I stopped taking stock because it was too depressing. I consoled myself with the following fact: I was in a fix that was hardly worse than having to fight off a rabid giraffe with only a spoon; the only difference was that I had never had to fight off a giraffe before, and I didn't have a spoon.
Finally the Agent stopped his audible wandering and crouched down in front of my face, well within my personal bubble.
"I will only ask you one more time. Where is this Walker? Where does he live? Tell me everything you know about him, or I will create for you the worst hell that you've ever imagined in the darkest, loneliest hours of the night. Tell me."
I recoiled from him at the thought of being drowned under several tons of Teletubby carcasses, and felt my resolve dissolving.
"I'm not sure…he was, well, I don't really know…He never really, I mean…I kind of but then…"
Somehow, he cut right through all my inarticulate blathering and surmised this: "So you're telling me that you met with him through a mutual friend and passed along vital information without your full knowledge of the consequences? And this happened, what, about a week ago?"
"Um…"
"And then he tried to contact you with further inquiries but you have not as of yet indulged his appeal?"
"Er…"
The agent tipped his head to the side as if he was craning to hear something better. I wondered what he was doing until it finally clunked into place. Abruptly he straightened up, swung around, and left the room without another word.
Three hours later I was only a pint of blood closer to untying myself from the chair, and my stomach was so vocal it felt like I had the Sunday Choir in my belly.
It seems like, in all the mystery and action books, when a character is in a real pickle, they always procure something brilliant for their escape. They always get these inspired ideas at just the right time, like fashioning a key out of their own tooth. So why was it that when I tried to bully my brain into working, all I could think about was how exceedingly graceful the agent was? Or the thought of him picking me up when I was unconscious and tying me to the chair. With every effort to dam the flow of these ideas, more just kept on flooding my synapses. This wasn't healthy!
Note to self: If you ever get out of this mess alive, find a psychiatrist *fast*! Because you have some serious problems inside your head.