Bashing Balls and a Flash Drive

            “What am I going to have to pay today?” Brent asks perched in his over-compensating chair.

            “Other than me?” I ask strolling in and taking a seat on his over-compensating desk.

            “I have to pay you?” he asks placing his dirty shoes next to me on his desk. I wouldn’t call Brent a manager or my boss, more like the banker. But if you see him in your neighborhood Chase, I would run. He’s darkly handsome. Stubble lines his hard features; his hair is as dark as midnight and always bed head beauty. Probably the only guy alive that can pull off the bed head look and not be accused of trying to look like Harry Styles or Robert Pattinson. I think it’s because Brent does it better.

            “No, but you have to pay me,” Dan says. He strolls in and leans against his arm placed on the desk behind me. “She got blood on my seats.” Dan wasn’t bad looking either, his dirty blonde hair waving in all different directions. Though, both of them were built.

            “Blame Brute 1 and Brute 2 then,” I say.

            “Why would I do that?” Dan asks and Brent silently wonders.

            “It’s their blood.”

            “Then what are you doing on my desk?” Brent asks kicking me off.

            “Cleaning the blood off of my coat,” I reply pushing off. I round his king-sized chair. I slowly bend my head down onto his laid back shoulders, bring my hands around onto his firm chest, and rub all the dirt, blood, and musk onto his nice white shirt.

            “Well now you’re definitely not getting paid.”

            “What about me?” Dan asks.

            “What did you do, you drove up under the window.”

            “You didn’t give me a chance to park.”

            “It’s not my fault you need to psych yourself up to perform.”

            “Ohhhh,” Brent coos.

            “I’m ready to go whenever you need me babe,” Dan says leaning forward to be square in my face.

            “How can a girl turn that offer down?” I ask leaning onto my arm to put my face into his.

            “They don’t,” Dan winks and smirks.

            “When Dan actually has the confidence to offer,” Brent interjects.

            Now it was my tern to coo “Ohhhhh.”

            “If we’re all done bashing balls, can we see what’s on this flash drive in the first place?” Brent asks moving towards his glass door. 

            “That would make my day,” I say pushing off of the desk. “But so would getting paid.”

            “I say amen to that,” Dan says pushing off of the desk as well.

            We follow Brent out of his office and downstairs to the computer farm. Who do we find in the center, none other than our technology cowboy. TechBoy if you will.

            “T. B. get your butt over here,” Brent shouts as he continues his brisk pace to the main monitor.

            T. B. runs like a lab rat in a race for the cheese. He made it in record time too. This time it is his turn to sit in the over-compensating chair in front of the over-compensating monitor. There must be a pattern with the men in this company. However, that’s the only similarity between T.B. and the other guys. He’s not built the same; he’s tall and lanky. His hair isn’t dark as midnight or beach sandy; it’s a dirty brown. “What do you guys need today?”

            “The information on this flash drive,” Brent says handing him the tiny plastic figurine.

            “May I ask why?” T.B. says taking it from Brent’s menacing hands.

            “I’m hoping you can tell us,” Brent says.

            “So it’s one of those cases.”

            “Yeah, it’s one of those.” Brent says.

            T.B. starts hastily typing away, green numbers and letters fly across the monitor.

            “You know you owe me a new shirt,” Brent says. We’re all still watching the monitor, hands folded across our chests, but we still manage to have the multi-tasking ability to snide towards one another.

            “Put it on my tab,” I retort.

            “Did you hear that Dan?” Brent asks.

            “Loud and clear Brent,” Dan replies.

            “What did you guys here?” I ask.

            “Progress,” they reply in unison.

            “Progress towards what, stupidity?”

            “No, to you in debt,” Brent begins.

            “Enough debt, more leverage,” Dan continues.

            “More leverage, more power in suggestion,” Brent picks up.

            “More power in suggestion, more payment options,” Dan follows.

            “Better chances of getting you to come to work in a bikini,” they finish together.

            “Sorry to crush your dreams, but I’m pretty sure my paycheck is 10x that shirt,” I answer.

            “Who said my new shirt was going to be a replacement of this shirt?” Brent asks.

            “I hate to end your guy’s delightful repartee,” T.B. interjects. “But we might want to get moving,” T.B. rises from his chair. He grabs a laptop nearby and the flash drive.

            “Why is that?” Dan asks.

            “Because they’re about to bomb our hideout.”

The Beginning

            My lips taste like glue. Ew. I run my tongue over my lips, moistening them and loosening the tape.

            “Have you had enough yet,” the dirty mug spits at me. To be honest, it was more saliva than voice.

            Considering my hands were tied behind my back, my feet tied to the front chair legs, and my mouth has many layers of duck tape restricting my voice, I just don’t know how to respond to that. Sign language isn’t even an option, not that I believe he has the comprehension for such. Mumbling seems like the best idea, I could shake my head, but would that piss him off as much.

            Though it sounded like “Mmmmgsdmmmmma asasdmmmmmdfmmmmm,” what I really said was “I didn’t know you already started. Performance issues?”

            As I predicted, he got mad. Steam fumed from his ears, his head transformed into a tomato, and he smacked my arm with a bat. Little did he know that most of that arm had no feeling left in it from a bad explosion in my rookie days.

            He throws the bat aside and it bounces from one side of the spectrum to another; good, bad, good, bad, good, bad, perpetually repelling one side. As the cycle continues until it rolls to a still medium, the thug begins hurriedly removing the tape he layered on me.  Moving his head closer and closer to me, until he was just to close. I brought my head back and slam my forehead into his skull. He falls instantly.

            Idiot. I stay where I am. I can remove at least one more brute from this vantage point. Though more than two would look suspicious.

            Just as I thought, another tattoo addict walks through the dinged door moments later. “What happened?” he screams. I really should learn these guys names. For now I’ll call the incapacitated tattoo Brute 1, and the walking tattoo Brute 2. That’s so much better.

            Anyway, I start jumping, what I can with legs and hands unavailable. I also release this high pitch squeal and shaking my head in astonishment. As well as widening my eyes and even managing to pull some tears out of them. Brute 2 quickens his pace. He comes closer to me and begins unwrapping some of the duck tape as well. But, like before he makes a huge mistake. He brings his head way too close. Bam, I head butt him as well. He falls instantly.

            I am so over tape at this moment. I shimmy my arm and my knife falls out. I cut the tape around my hands. I unwrap the tape around my mouth. I kick my feet free.

I so hate sitting for too long as well. I walk across the room and regain my equipment they were too enthusiastic too remove. I put my burgundy shirt back on, zip-on my leather jacket, pull my leather pants on, and complete my look with my boots. I re-clip my thigh holsters, my ankle holsters, and make sure some of my hidden pockets are still in working condition. The pistol-38 goes in the right thigh holster. The steyr-m in the left thigh holster. The patriot knife in my right ankle holster. The applegate in the left ankle holster. And to keep some of the mystery alive, I’m not even going to tell you where the hidden pockets are and what are going into them.

            Now re-armed, I begin my exit. Out the dinged door and through the steal ones.

            “Did you guys miss me?” I ask as I barge into their ‘headquarters.’

            You think they would figure it out, don’t just get-up and ram. You think, then get-up, and then ram. That first step is important people. But, they get-up and they try to ram. One dives, I swing my leg around and kick them straight in the side of the face. He lands by my feet; head first, and out cold. Another one decides to throw a punch. I catch his fist, turn it down, his head lowers with his arm to try and save himself the pain, and my knee comes up into his chin. I didn’t know someone’s head could go back that far. He’s out cold on the other side of me. The last two had a light bulb go off. Don’t just all go one at time; two huge brutes have a better chance at taking this little girl down. I hate to be cliché, but brains over brawn. One from my left one from my right and they lunge. I don’t do that superhero move where they pull out that gun thing that has that tri-hook where they get pulled up.  I just jump up, reach for a waterline on the ceiling, hold myself and kick out in both directions. I jump down, and they fall backwards. Well, now that that is taken care of.

            I retrieve the flash drive from the computer on the crumby tables. I look around the worn-out building. There’s a window on the far right. I think I found my escape route. If you’re going to go home, you might as well do it in style. I inhale my adventure and lunge. I come crashing out the two-story warehouse and land in the back of a backseat of a 1964 Mustang Convertible. “You know you should be more careful.”

            “Why?” I ask scooting to the front.

            “Because I’m not always going to be here,” Dan says.

            “That will just make it more fun.”

            “Now I know why people call you the Bleeding Rose, your thorns sting.”

            “Look who learned what metaphors were!”

            “Why they don’t call you the Patronizing Rose, I’ll never know.”

            Dan floors on the gas and we’re off.