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Taped-Up-Table-Top Chapter Uno (That Means One You Nitwits)
With slow, precise dedication, he whispered in my ear.
“Adam, Adam, are you sure you want to do that?
“Are you going to walk the plank, Adam?
“Are you going to find her and bring her back?
“Adam, oh Adam, if you do that it will never be the same between us.”
I could only watch as the clock behind his shoulder ticked by. Any minute, any second now, that bomb would go off on his back, and I would be left alone to find her. Or may be not, after all, we were side by side, and I had a bomb duct-taped to his back, while he had a .47 caliber gun pointed at my left lung. Personally, I hated him, but she loved him. She was everything keeping us together, but now she was pushing us away. I didn’t want to kill him, but that was the price he would pay for getting in my way.
Unless I could make him give her location all bets were off.
“So, Sven… just how long do you think that you’ll live after I detonate that thing?”
For a moment, he thought about this, and bit his lower lip in contemplation. The button clenched in my right hand could either deactivate or set off the bomb, and I could see his eyes focused on my hand.
“Will you stick around for a while, as you catch on fire, and scream a little bit? Or do you think that you’ll see the light as I push this little button?”
Finally, he smirked and looked at me with dark eyes full of laughter.
“At the moment, no, I think that I will keep my Communist butt right in this chair and share a bullet with you, my Texan friend. Alright? All good for the sharing, yes? Adam gets killed, Sven gets killed, and Nita shares the pain.”
I hate to admit it, but Sven was right, Nita would be disappointed. She loved Sven after all, and she would hate the fact that she didn’t get to kill me. Gotta love that woman—but right now, she was being a pain without even being here. All the same; it was either Sven or me, and I had a bit of a bias.
So live and let die.
Pushing away from him with my left foot, I tipped the chair over with my right foot and pivoted so that the ropes would catch on the sharp outcropping. In an old building like this, I had so many more options than Sven; the duct tape on his arms and legs wouldn’t have ripped like the rope had. Broken down skyscrapers were perfect to find multiple weapons, and I pulled a pipe out of the wall as Sven fired of two shots at me, hitting one of my kneecaps.
Did I mention how much I hate him?
In the afternoon sun, my blood glistened like a red garnet, but Sven’s splattered like paint against the cement wall as I hit him with the pipe. Unfortunately, I had forgotten, in my rage, that he still had a gun.
It wouldn’t have mattered if I had smacked him hard enough.
Anyway, I didn’t, and he shot me again.
In the crotch.
Adam really hates Sven.
Luckily, he only grazed me, but I had the pipe, and he was still sitting down. If it hasn’t been insinuated loud enough, then let me say it; I went to town on that sun of a gun. Left, right, left, right, snickety, snak, I beat him like the Jabberwok that he was. For a long while after I just stood there and watched the blood drip down his face, to the floor, then into a puddle near his black boots, finally pooling at the tip of my tennis shoes—my pristine, white, new tennis shoes.
Even when he’s dying Sven finds a completely complex way to screw me over.
“A-Ah-Adam…”
So apparently, he’s not that dead. Crap on a stick—I forgot that he had those steel plates installed after I did this last time. As I realize this, it’s a little too late, because my proximity is just enough space for him to jab me with a needle.
Where the heck did he pull that from? He’s wearing skintight leather pants! I’m not even sure that I want to know anymore! Inevitably, as I crash to the floor, he stands up, using a blade (previously nonexistent) to cut himself free.
Good gods, I hate him so much.
While he cleans himself up and pulls my carcass down the hall by my feet I can only think swear words at him, irritated at my newfound complete inability to blink.
Great. Just great.
My eyes are open so I take the opportunity to look around to keep track of where we’re going, but my pupils keep coming back to him, but then they stick when they notice that his pale skin is sweating up one of my old grey T-shirts. After ten years of analyzing this man, I cannot—for the life of me—figure out how he continually gets in my dresser.
Part of me says I shouldn’t guess.
Please Rate and Review Pls. Much loves, but tell me what you like and do not like, what needs improvement, and if you can understand teh story. 4laugh And Yes, I said "teh". Whatcha gonna do 'bout it?
 halocreamdevil · Mon May 05, 2008 @ 05:05am · 1 Comments |
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