The Hostage
WHACK!
Blood and spit shot out of his mouth. His head jerked back and returned to its position. Welts had formed along his jaw line. His eyes were half swollen shut. Blood trickled down his left temple. His arms tied back in the stiff wooden chair, his legs gaffed to the chair’s legs, and still he couldn’t stop thinking about it: how to deadlock the NBA in a permanent owner vs. player strike so that the insolent sport would never be played, much less televised, again.
WHACK!
Another hit to the side of his head. Wink casually looked out the corner of his eye and saw a Syrian man standing above him, a chain wrapped around his hand dripping with Wink’s blood. Another Syrian wielding a metal pipe stood in the corner, trying to look menacing but subtly showing his fear. The Syrian with the chain screeched something in his native tongue.
Wink simply smiled a toothy, bloody grin and said, “When you faggots can speak to me in a civilized tongue, like Latin or Japanese, then maybe I’ll consider an answer to your insolent demands.”
A single bulb illuminated the small, hot, dusty room. Above that was several feet of concrete. Above that was the ground level dilapidated shack surrounded by at least a hundred miles of desert in any direction. Whatever country they were in didn’t even recognize this “part of town” on maps, assuming they had maps.
The man with the chain was growing more frustrated. He signaled for the pipe. The man with the pipe stood there for a second, until the man with the chain screamed again. Finally, the man swung the pipe across Wink’s knees.
WHACK!
“You’re joking, right?” Wink chuckled.
A series of loud, booming gunshots fired in the room above them. The Syrians instantly looked startled and then puzzled at Wink. The three men in the room could hear the commotion, then silence. The sound of a door upstairs was kicked down. A single pair of feet ran down the wooden stairs, and suddenly the only door into the torture chamber shrapnelled open.
Without turning to see who shot the door open, Wink spoke barely above a whisper, “Leo - don’t touch that trigger.”
“But Mr. Mart-”
“Leo?”
“Yes Mr. Martindale?”
Wink looked at his captors, rapt in confusion and horror at the man in the doorway. Not just any man, but Leo “The Tool” Johnson - a 268 pound white linebacker of a man wearing a fez and four belts of ammunition and pointing a large shotgun and a .357 at them. Wink ignored the Arabs and returned his attention to Leo.
“I’m going to ask you two questions,” Wink said.
“Yes, Mr. Martindale,” Leo tentatively responded.
“What did I tell you the last time I spoke with you?”
“To wait in the van until-”
“Before that.”
The Tool thought for a moment. “To go out and get you some Cheez Whiz and not to report to you until I have it.”
“That’s right. Do you have it?”
“Um… no sir. I-”
“That was my first question. My other question is also very simple. Did you get the signal?”
“Well, I heard on your special radio that the International, um, Feds-“
“Interpol?”
“Yeah, dem. That Interpol thought that you had been kidnapped by some Arabic terrorists. I figure I should save-“
“Leo, you haven’t answered my question. Did you get the signal?”
“Um, you mean the butterfly that would descend upon my soul?”
“Yes.”
“I thought that was just, like, your poetry.”
“Did you see a butterfly?”
“No.”
“So you didn’t get the signal, and if you didn’t get the signal, what were you supposed to do?”
“Wait in the van.”
“For the last three days these amateurs have been trying to turn my head into a bloody stump. Now that I finally get half an erection, not to mention draft one of the greatest contractual disputes in the history of the sports industry, you have to bust in here before my signal, break the furniture and shoot the shit out of the place with your goddamn boomstick. And you still don’t have my fucking Cheez Whiz?!”
“Uh…”
“Wait for me in the van.”
“Um, yes. Thank you Mr. Martindale. You are the Eggman.”
Leo turned and ran up the steps like a little girl who just broke the cookie jar.
Stunned, the man with the chain began screaming again at Wink.
This time Wink spoke in fluent Circassian, the tongue fluent to the small part of Syria from which these men obviously hailed.
“You will stop talking now, Assad.”
The man instantly stopped, not only at Wink’s apparent knowledge at the language, but at the fact that he mysteriously knew his name.
Wink continued, “Or shall I call you… ‘de la Croix?’”
The man once called Assad took a step back, his lips trembling, the chain loosening from his grip. He looked to the duffel bag on the floor, and then back at Wink. Wink slowly shook his head, “I don’t have time for your amateur ways.”
The ropes binding Wink fell casually to the floor, and Wink reached into his jacket pocket. The man with the chain nervously looked at the man with the pipe who was looking nervously at Wink’s hands. Wink pulled out a pad of paper and a pen. Still speaking fluent Circassian, Wink said to de la Croix, “Give this to Leo. He should be waiting outside in the van. This will instruct him to let you join him. Go.” Wink handed him the note, who dropped his chain and ran outside.
Wink turned his attention to the man with the pipe.
“So,” Wink said. “Are you going to hit me with your stick Hassan? Or shall I call you ‘de la Croix?’”
Hassan dropped the pipe, fell to his knees and started blubbering at Wink’s feet.
“That’s what I thought. Now, go into your duffel bag there.”
Hassan scurried to the duffel bag and removed a small transmitter with a red button. He curiously looked to Wink.
“Go ahead,” Wink said. “Press the button.”
Hassan did, and a thunderous explosion erupted outside.
“There,” Wink said. “That little group of pussies you call a terrorist group got to blow up my van with my personal attendant and another man, presumably me, inside it, all in the name of Allah. And I got to fire that useless jackoff Leo. Balance has been attained. Now, find my coat. Inside it is my phone. Call us a limo. I need to get to Winnipeg pronto. There’s a pie eating contest - best goddamn lingonberry pie you ever had - and I’m emceeing the event. Hey, if I order a cab, will I get an American driver? Get it? It’s an Arabic country. An American cabbie driving in an Arabic… never mind. A limo will be fine. Oh, and have the driver bring a red fez. You’ll need it.”