Black Diaries

44. VIP Treatment (Stab wounds Included)

"Holy Honeyfucking Shitstick!"

This gentle expletive from behind me reminded me that there were still two other people in the room. When I turned around, the security was just pulling his taser, and the red laser pointer flickered over the floor towards me. I hurled myself forward and, grabbing one of the table's legs, flung it towards the two men with all my might. It capsized, and I heard the taser darts thud into the wood, and the sizzle of a high electric charge.

"Throw away your weapons!" the guard barked. "Put your hands up in the air!"

"Of course!" Slowly, I raised one hand over the edge of the table. "Like that?"

I lowered my other hand into my handbag, grabbing a particular item, and opening its lid.

"The other hand, too!"

"Of course," I purred, and my other hand shot up, hurling the open container of hot, Indian curry right into the guard's face.

"Iiiaaaaarghliarg! Arg! Krg!"

Not wasting a second, I leapt over the table and kicked the guard in the side of the leg. He went down like a tree at "timber" and smashed into the ground. The taser flew out of his hand and skittered over the floor. I didn't stop to pick it up. The thing probably didn't even have a "fry alive"-setting.

Whirling around, I raised my hand to block any incoming blows from the last man standing. But no blow came.

What do you think the last one of the brave FBI agents was doing? Was he tackling me? Was he pulling out his revolver? No. He was inching back towards the door. His sunglasses had fallen off, and I saw now that his eyes looked rather like those of a frightened little bunny rabbit.

"P-please," he gasped. "D-don't hurt me!"

"Coward!" Eyes flashing, I advanced towards him. "Is that a way for an FBI agent to behave? You're supposed to be brave defenders of law and order! You should be hunting pedophiles and jaywalkers, instead of harmless little serial killers like me!"

He stared at me. "FBI Agent? I'm not—"

I wasn't interested in his sniveling excuses. Slipping my hand into my handbag, I pulled out the last item in there. The last weapon I had. And out it came: a blood red and black silk shawl with the price tag still attached, proudly proclaiming: On Sale! 499 Rupees only!

Grabbing the shawl with both hands, I advanced towards the cowardly FBI agent.

"No! Please! Please, have mercy! Pleaaaaaaaarggh! Mmm! Gnnk!"

The man's last labored breaths subsided, and he slumped to the ground, a 499 Rupee shawl spilling from around his neck like a stream of blood.

"I hope you're a religious man," I told him.

"Fucking heap of fascist fuckshit!"

Take a guess who uttered that little piece of rhetorical eloquence. Yes, that's right—my old friend the security guard. How could I have forgotten about him—and especially about the fact that he wasn't dead yet!

I was just about to turn when a mountain crashed into me. Or at least he felt like a mountain. We landed on the floor, his weight driving all the wind out of me, his contorted face only inches away from me. I knew that I had only one chance to get him off me.

"Eeee-yah!"

Using his own momentum, I kneed him in the gut and propelled him over me, slamming him into the air and on his back.

"Ng!"

"That's right! Take that, you fat old frog's ass!"

Giving him another kick, I started to scramble away and up on my feet, but he grabbed my pant leg and wrenched me back down. A cry escaped me as my knee slammed with full force into the hard tiled floor. Rolling around, I kicked out again, squirming, twisting, trying anything to get out of his grip. But the security guard held fast. His massive hand was like a vice digging into my leg.