Never Impressed (Ch. 4-7)

CHAPTER

              4

 

A groan came from the room’s corner.

     “Don’t be moaning, girly,” said George. He spit in that general direction. One of his hands grasped a beer as the other slammed the mini-fridge door. “I’m the nicest kidnapper around.”

     “Why are you doing this?” the girl said.

     “Note to self,” George muttered, “gag them next time.” He picked up his voice. “The President’s niece ought to fetch a nice ransom, don’t you think?” His teeth were bared in a grin.

     “And then you’ll go to jail,” said the girl. “Loser,” she whispered.

     “What was that, girly?”

     “Lysol.  This room stinks.” The girl stuck her tongue out.

     “You little…” George trailed. “Definitely gag next time.”

     “I’ll bet the FBI will be busting down your door by tomorrow morning.”

     “We’ll see about that.  It’s been what, three weeks now.” George laughed quite maniacally.

     Suddenly, a metal blade pierced through George’s chest. Blood dripped from his mouth.

     “Idiot,” came a robotic voice.

 

 

            CHAPTER

              5

 

Strauss Walked behind the Youth Theatre’s stage. He toted a suitcase in one straw hand. The other held a magnifying glass.

     Through the glass, he examined the walls, the floor, the doors, everything that might reveal something important. He stopped.

     Strauss opened his suitcase and pulled out a small metal device. A wide blue beam shot out as he pressed down on a button. The machine beeped. Thousands of faces flashed on the small display. Eventually, it stilled. A pudgy man with dark hair and a tattoo just below his neck stayed on the screen. “George Terror,” a metallic voice said.

     “Address?” Strauss asked.

     “101 Dalmatian Street, District of Columbia.”

     “Thanks.”

 

 

 

            CHAPTER

              6

 

“Who are you?” asked the girl.

     “I am Flat-Model Robot 57. You can call me FR57.”

     “Why did you save me, Mr. Robot?”

     “It is FR57. Do not tax my patience, child.”

     “You didn’t answer my question.”

     FR57 rammed the equivalent of his palm into the equivalent of his face. “I did not save you. You are yet to be ransomed.”

     “What use do you have for the money, Tin Can?”

     “Why didn’t that imbecile gag you,” FR57 said at a lowered volume. “I want to be a real man.”

     “And you figure that with enough money you can buy yourself a body.”

     “That is correct.”

     “I thought the last guy was bad…”

 

 

 

            CHAPTER

              7

 

THE CIA, FBI, MPD, MBL, NAMBLA, YMCA, AND SEVERAL other organizations with acronyms flooded the front yard of George Terror’s house. The jig was up.

     Strauss pounded on the door three times.  “DC police. We have you surrounded. If you surrender now you may get a chance to see A Rod.”

     A deep whirring sound seemed to be coming from behind the door.  “Alex Rodriguez?” said FR57.

     Strauss spun FR57 around and cuffed the equivalent of his arms. He felt cold. He was cold.

     Strauss led him into the back of his vehicle. “Well done,” said FR57.  “I have been defeated.”

     A classic McKayla Maroney “I am not impressed” look played across Strauss’ face.  “I know.”

Never Impressed (Chapters 1-3)

Chapter

              1

 

The Sixth District Substation was the definition of chaos. Police officers milled wildly. Lieutenant Greaves moved just as haphazardly. But he had a mission.  Cross the room and drop off his file while resisting temptation: his eleven-thirty donut.

     The room seemed to stretch as Greaves stalked forward, dodging boxes from the local bakery. Commander Strauss’ desk could have been a mile away. Time slowed.

     Strauss was polishing off a glazed when Greaves arrived.  The Lieutenant threw down the file and hummed a few bars from Rocky.

     “What’s this?” Strauss asked. He wiped off the straw fibers surrounding his toothless mouth.

     “The Meriwether Case. FBI wants you to report to Langley by one.”

     Strauss glanced down at his watch.  “Challenge accepted.”

 

 

 

            Chapter

              2

 

A burly man sat on his coach. An empty apple pie tin sat on the table beside him, along with a Redskins bobble head signed “to George”. He pulled a pocket knife from the chest pocket of his XXL flannel and dug the grime from his fingernails. Bits of rope were amid the usual dirt.

     A strange noise hit George’s ears. He glanced around, then locked his eyes on the door to his basement.  Patiently, he traversed the room, opened the door, and stomped down his fur-lined stairs.

     Sixty gallons of water filled the aquarium taking up the back wall of the cellar.  Half a dozen plants seemed to dance as they were buffeted by the bubble-maker on the tank’s gravelly bottom.  A single fish thrashed near the surface.  A red herring.

     George nodded self-assuredly and tossed a soda from a mini-fridge beside his Ping-Pong table into the corner.

 

 

 

            Chapter

              3

 

Strauss knocked on the door of a humble townhouse a stone throw from DC. The man who answered the door looked both gaunt and puffy. His cheeks clung tightly across prominent cheekbones, yet the skin beneath his eyes was black and swollen.

     “DC police,” Strauss said, flashing his badge. “I’m here to ask some questions regarding your daughter’s disappearance.”

     By now a woman had appeared as well. Her face was coated thickly with bronzer and vanishing cream. “Please, come in,” she said, not sounding too excited about it.

     “When did you see your daughter last, Mrs. Neeson?” Strauss asked once he was seated at the dining room table. He pulled a pencil from behind his ear and opened a notepad.

     “Two days ago, during her dance recital,” Mrs. Neeson said.

     Strauss nodded. “And when did you notice that she was missing?”

     “Sh-she,” stammered Mr. Neeson “didn’t come back on st-stage to take her bow. It was always her…always her favorite part.” He took out a handkerchief and blew into it loudly.

     “Where was this dance recital taking place?”

     Mrs. Neeson answered, “at the Youth Theatre on Shifty Street.”

     Strauss looked up from his pad and gave each of the Neesones a look. “Thank you.  I’m on it.”