Mongoose - Chapter 8B
anonymous
November 13 2010, 09:40:37 UTC
October 18 Monday, 3:41 p.m.
“Oh my god, I feel human again,” groans Alfred.
Russia makes a polite noise. He watches Alfred pace around the kitchen, stretching his arms up over his head so that a little slip of soft tummy shows. He does this more than once, as though every single time it’s a pleasure. The captive is sleep-tousled, warm and happy-it’s a little alarming. In Russia’s long years of experience, captives show a wide range of emotions, but these things are rare.
There’s no mistaking the sincere cheer in Alfred’s expression as he opens the cupboards, though. He makes a disappointed noise at their empty contents each time, but the brightness in his eyes doesn’t fade. “Don’t you have anything to eat here?”
“I feel like we have had this conversation,” says Russia.
“Oh yeah, you’re a cheap douche who can’t cook. Okay, you should buy some real food-like maybe some Hamburger Helper, that’s awesome stuff. Make sure to buy the hamburger, too. You know, maybe two pounds. I can make some mean Hamburger Helper.” Alfred glances back at him, fingers twisting on the cupboard knob in something that isn’t quite nerves. Speculation, maybe. “You can just tell your employer to pay you more since you had to deal with my upkeep, right? I’ve got credit cards, too. If you want ‘em. Just for groceries, not for other crap.”
Russia considers him. “You’re in a very good mood.”
“I’m clean, warm, and not tied up for the first time in a few days. Duh.”
“These things don’t change your situation.”
“I can’t do much about my situation,” Alfred reminds him. Leaning against the counter, he folds his arms and regards Russia. “I thought about it in the shower and when I woke up. Either you’re lying to me and I’m going to die here-probably in your freaky little closet or from the hunger pangs, seriously, starving here-or I really am gonna be held for ransom from my dad. Which seems pretty, okay, pretty plausible. And so, you meant it when you said nothing was gonna happen to me. You don’t really seem like a liar. A total psycho, yeah, we all have some freaky whacko shit to get over, I can deal. But maybe not a liar.”
Russia doesn’t know what to say to that.
“So this’ll be a ride in the ballpark, yeah? Just… the usual stuff you see on TV, right? You deliver me, dude asks my dad for some money, the trade happens and black duffel bags are exchanged in some train station, we all go home happy?”
Russia thinks about it. “Essentially,” he says. He’s not sure about the black duffel bags and train stations.
“Okay. Cool.”
“I could be lying to you,” Russia reminds him. It seems like a big thing to forget so quickly.
Alfred just shrugs. “So if you are, I’m pretty screwed. Guess I’d better play nice and pretend to get along with you so I can escape.”
And at this, Russia is surprised enough that he lets out a childish laugh. He rests his chin on his knuckles, letting the smile stay rested on his mouth for a moment longer. Alfred is refreshingly naïve. He doesn’t tell him so. “Yes, perhaps you had better.”
Alfred peers at him dubiously. When that doesn’t seem to garner any new information as to Russia’s motives, he mills around the kitchen once more, fingertips skimming along the walls and few furnishings like he’s memorizing sensory details, remapping it in his head. It’s a funny thing; it reminds Russia of an animal learning the corners of its cage. There’s curiosity in him like a living current.
Those hands pass over the tops of the chairs, save for the one that Russia sits in. Russia watches them: blunt nails, long scar across one palm, shiny pink on the thumb where the skin has been bitten and worried smooth. They aren’t the hands of someone who’s led the life of a hermit, but Russia isn’t in the business of reading palms.
“So, is this what you do for a living?” asks Alfred.
Russia further regards his hands, which are making circles on top of the table and moving against the wood grain. “What does the ‘this’ mean?”
Monday, 3:41 p.m.
“Oh my god, I feel human again,” groans Alfred.
Russia makes a polite noise. He watches Alfred pace around the kitchen, stretching his arms up over his head so that a little slip of soft tummy shows. He does this more than once, as though every single time it’s a pleasure. The captive is sleep-tousled, warm and happy-it’s a little alarming. In Russia’s long years of experience, captives show a wide range of emotions, but these things are rare.
There’s no mistaking the sincere cheer in Alfred’s expression as he opens the cupboards, though. He makes a disappointed noise at their empty contents each time, but the brightness in his eyes doesn’t fade. “Don’t you have anything to eat here?”
“I feel like we have had this conversation,” says Russia.
“Oh yeah, you’re a cheap douche who can’t cook. Okay, you should buy some real food-like maybe some Hamburger Helper, that’s awesome stuff. Make sure to buy the hamburger, too. You know, maybe two pounds. I can make some mean Hamburger Helper.” Alfred glances back at him, fingers twisting on the cupboard knob in something that isn’t quite nerves. Speculation, maybe. “You can just tell your employer to pay you more since you had to deal with my upkeep, right? I’ve got credit cards, too. If you want ‘em. Just for groceries, not for other crap.”
Russia considers him. “You’re in a very good mood.”
“I’m clean, warm, and not tied up for the first time in a few days. Duh.”
“These things don’t change your situation.”
“I can’t do much about my situation,” Alfred reminds him. Leaning against the counter, he folds his arms and regards Russia. “I thought about it in the shower and when I woke up. Either you’re lying to me and I’m going to die here-probably in your freaky little closet or from the hunger pangs, seriously, starving here-or I really am gonna be held for ransom from my dad. Which seems pretty, okay, pretty plausible. And so, you meant it when you said nothing was gonna happen to me. You don’t really seem like a liar. A total psycho, yeah, we all have some freaky whacko shit to get over, I can deal. But maybe not a liar.”
Russia doesn’t know what to say to that.
“So this’ll be a ride in the ballpark, yeah? Just… the usual stuff you see on TV, right? You deliver me, dude asks my dad for some money, the trade happens and black duffel bags are exchanged in some train station, we all go home happy?”
Russia thinks about it. “Essentially,” he says. He’s not sure about the black duffel bags and train stations.
“Okay. Cool.”
“I could be lying to you,” Russia reminds him. It seems like a big thing to forget so quickly.
Alfred just shrugs. “So if you are, I’m pretty screwed. Guess I’d better play nice and pretend to get along with you so I can escape.”
And at this, Russia is surprised enough that he lets out a childish laugh. He rests his chin on his knuckles, letting the smile stay rested on his mouth for a moment longer. Alfred is refreshingly naïve. He doesn’t tell him so. “Yes, perhaps you had better.”
Alfred peers at him dubiously. When that doesn’t seem to garner any new information as to Russia’s motives, he mills around the kitchen once more, fingertips skimming along the walls and few furnishings like he’s memorizing sensory details, remapping it in his head. It’s a funny thing; it reminds Russia of an animal learning the corners of its cage. There’s curiosity in him like a living current.
Those hands pass over the tops of the chairs, save for the one that Russia sits in. Russia watches them: blunt nails, long scar across one palm, shiny pink on the thumb where the skin has been bitten and worried smooth. They aren’t the hands of someone who’s led the life of a hermit, but Russia isn’t in the business of reading palms.
“So, is this what you do for a living?” asks Alfred.
Russia further regards his hands, which are making circles on top of the table and moving against the wood grain. “What does the ‘this’ mean?”
“Kidnapping people.”
“Ah, that. No.”
Reply
Leave a comment