Insert Coin Here
Dear Reader:
Go ahead and pretend I didn't go and lie through my teeth about the deadline… (I had midterms! Don't kill me!)
Chapter Two: Somebody feed me!
The point is, hell, there isn't one!
I'm just stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck, in a surprisingly clean (but really, amazingly, incredibly stark) holding cell.
It's dark, humid, and hot. And, for some unknown reason, I'm sitting here completely dressed. Speaking of the unknown:
Where the hell am I? and
What the hell is going on? and, most importantly…
I'm hungry… Somebody feed me!
Having decided I was both: a. curious, and b. confused, and, c. starving, I stood up abruptly, and fell over as my legs gave out from under me. My vision blacked out from the edges inward as I swooned, crumpled to the ground with a shriek, and lay there, blind and gasping for breath.
I swore. Postural hypo-tension… my doctor was always telling me I had low blood levels because I didn't drink enough water. What did he call me?… an under-watered plant. That's it.
Well, wonderful. So my loathing of the taste of water had caught up with me. Again. This was why I was always hungry—if I didn't eat, I'd faint. But like that was a bad thing?
As I raved to myself about the joyous wonders of eating, a person (Guard? Captor? Convicted sex offender?) came and checked on me, surveying me lying on the ground breathless.
My vision swam with flashing spots whilst he jangled the key into the heavy padlock (Gee, that'll make getting out of here easy. I mean, doesn't every kidnapped person want a padlock?) stepped inside, and hauled me to my feet.
He turned to the door, keeping half an eye on me as he did so (clever bastard…) and called something in a strange language.
It sounded like something oriental.
So I tried Japanese. I mean, why not.
"Nani?"
Not that I know enough Japanese for it to make a difference, really. But I was trying to get my bearings here.
I headed for Chinese, next, trying out the Mandarin taught to me by a Chinese friend.
No luck.
The one word of Korean I knew (ban, the pastry of the gods!) and mimed eating.
Nothing.
As for French?
Zip.
English, Spanish, Welsh, Gaelic, Italian, Portugese, Hebrew, nothing, nothing, nothing!
Hell, I even tried Latin, for god's sakes. Latin. What did I need to try next, Hindi?
And after being prodded by who I assumed was a ship's doctor, I heard him speak in low tones with the guard, look upward, glance at me, and resume his harried speech. By their expressions, I assumed I was in for it. Whatever "it" was.
And then one little phrase caught my ear.
"Agni—"
My attention jolted back to the conversation. Agni was a Hindi god of fire!
"Agni! Angi!"
They both glanced at me, sharing the expression of 'what the hell is that freako raving about?' as I started chattering.
"Okay, okay, so you can't understand me, I get it, but you know and I know one word! That's a start!"
I fished around in my pants for the tiny box of matches I kept sewn to them hem of my jeans. Oh thank god for being paranoid enough to carry around medication and matches and batteries and a small flashlight. Yesyesyes! My early childhood instilled tradition of "always come prepared" (be it crayons or matches) was no longer crazy!
(Okay, so my probably fanatic fantasy world I was stuck in right now was, but hey: think happy thoughts!)
I ripped out the rough stitches with little effort, held up the striker box, and fished around for a match.
"Angi," I breathed once more. I struck a match and let it burn slowly, savoring the small amount of heat and the possibility of being understood here. "Agni."
I glanced around for the two men, but they had left, vanished. My pleased grin slid from my face, the match singed my fingertips, and I yelped even as I dropped the match quickly.
"Ow!"
I stomped down and crushed the match out while I shook my hand in the air, quietly chanting "ow ow ow." For extra insurance, I licked my fingers and dabbed at the quickly cooling match until I heard a small hiss as I put out the last, tiny live coal.
So there I stood once more, but now, with a bonus! Now I was in utter and complete darkness. The two men had taken with them the only torch.
"Bastards," I muttered dejectedly.
Screw thinking happy thoughts, this sucked.
And that's when my magical fairy princess godmother popped up, granted my 3.5 wishes, gave me a sugar glazed pastry, and I got out of here, graduated Valedictorian from my highschool, and was admitted to UCLA where I was decreed Queen of the Genuises. I became a world-class surgeon and bought a 15,000 square foot house in some exotic place with good sushi and sexy male models with no greater desire than to sing corny ballads about how ugly the other was.