Writing on the Wall: Part 2

"Wake up!" Came the sharp feminine voice belonging to Clarissa. John's eyes snapped open almost immediately as his new best friend pushed a small button that sent ninety volts of pure electric caffeine through John's system. The shock was brief, small, and only intended to cause significant discomfort; a job that the buzzerbox did quite nicely. Though his eyes were now open, John could see only blurred white streaks with intermittent smudges across his vision. He reasoned that his forehead was still bleeding from the minute cuts his previous "best friend" had left him. A grunt signaled that John was awake and aware.

"Did I give you permission to sleep?" The question was obviously rhetorical but John couldn't resist the chance to be a wiseass.

"No," John responded curtly. One of the new rules he lived by was that he could not talk unless giving up information on the Spider or answering a question.

Clarissa looked like she was ready to push the buzzerbox and send another jolt though her captive but she could not bring herself to break her own rules.
John had figured out precious little about his the fourth member of the crew that had blown up his rental car in Zurich and taken him captive. The first member of the crew known only as "The Doctor" was the man responsible for keeping John alive after the accident. John had heard nothing more about the good doctor in between the rotations of his observers. The second member went by the name Pattrik Vashenfeldt and seemed to be the man in charge. John always heard Pattrik referred to by his first name and had not come to see John since his initial visit. Clarissa Ekmes was the third member of the team and by far the one that John hated the most at this point in time. She lives a rigid set of rules and to call her a control freak would have been an understatement; John knew this only because Clarissa had told him all the rules he needed to know and the consequences of breaking them. The fourth member of the team was known to John only as Oscar. John only knew that Oscar enjoyed inflicting pain and disliked talking. Of the four, he disliked Oscar the most because Oscar meant more pain whereas Clarissa meant that the group needed to know something.

Another surge of electricity traveled through John's system and disrupted him from his thoughts. The ringing in his ears nearly muffled the shouts Clarissa was letting forth from her lightly scarred face. "WHO WAS OR IS THE SPIDER?" Clarissa held the switch for the buzzerbox at the ready in front of John's face, a sign that she was sure to shock him again if he didn't answer.

He had at some point in the last day considered lying to his interrogators but discovered that lying brought Oscar and Oscar brought excruciating pain. John did not know exactly how his new family could tell when he was lying; however, not knowing did little to change the fact the he had no option but to be truthful, or to be silent.

"I told you already--" John delivered as he was interrupted by a hacking cough, "I don't know anything about the Spider." He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth in preparation for the buzzerbox but felt nothing. When he opened his eyes Clarissa was gone from his vision and a soft clicking noise caught his attention. It was a sound John did not know or recognize.

Just as curiosity was beginning to seize him a larger burst of current shot through his system. Right before he clenched his eyes closed he rationalized that the clicking sound controlled the amount of current produced by the buzzerbox. John's muscles spasmed and convulsed but found little room for movement in the chair he was still tied to. It seemed like ages that the current ran through him even though he knew it was most likely only mere seconds.

Deep in the background of his mind he could hear Clarissa yelling and shouting at him. Closer to the surface he knew his body felt pain from the electricity that was now randomly pulsing through his system, but none of this would help Clarissa get her answers. No amount of screaming or electricity would wake John from his semi-comatose state.

Though he did not know it he was the first person to break one of Ekmes' rules and live.

With a sigh of frustration, Clarissa Ekmes turned off the buzzerbox and knocked on the door to John's room. It opened, then closed behind her, and John was finally alone and allowed to sleep.

Writing on the Wall: Part 1

The air was cold... Where was he? Memories ran through his head slowly as if halted at the bends and turns of his mind for inspection before being allowed to pass. A car, the sound of an engine, the radio; "How about that card game tonight John?", "I don't want to take your money Kennan," "Well I doub-" "INCOMMING!"; An explosion... pain. "Was sollen wir mit dem amerikanischen zu tun?"; "Warum war er hier? Nehmen Sie ihn zum Arzt." Light. Bright light, the smell of rubbing alcohol, a woman's voice, "Patient Anzeichen einer Besserung zeigt, Doktor, er sollte in der Lage, in wenigen Tagen zu sprechen." Rope. Being tied tight, he could feel it. Was he remembering or feeling? He glanced down and saw thick worn rope tied around his wrists, double knotted, and anchored to the chair. When he tried to move his head he felt more rope holding it in place along his forehead. The last thing he noticed was the blood slowly streaming down his chest and a shadow in the corner of his own personal hell.

"Where am I?" He rhasped out. No response. "Who are you?" John took a breath and attempted to speed up his mind. He needed to distinguish what he was feeling now from what he felt in the past. "Why am I here, where's Kennan?" Still no response save for a minor movement from the shadow in the corner. He strained against his bonds, testing them, seeing if they were solid. John had no movement at all.

"Ah, herr John," began a thickly German voice from the shadows, "You are in Germany." A lighter's flame errupted from the shadows and illuminated the face of his captor. For someone John determined to be a villian his face was surprisingly pristine. "I am Pattrik Vashenfeldt and you are here for no other reason than that you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Kennan, we assume is dead." Pattrik paused a moment for John to process what he was telling him before finishing his speech with dramatic flair, "I tell you this only because I want you to know 'zat I mean you no harm. As long as you tell us what we want to know, you will be spared great suffering."

From where he sat John couldn't see much except for the light of the flame go out as Pattrik lit his cigarette. He guessed that he was alone and judged that his wounds were not inflicted by the man talking to him. As his restraints were too tightly held John ventured to stretch out in a different manner. "What happened to me?" Silence lasted for what seemed a full minute. John was resolute in remaining quiet himself. He knew that Pattrik had heard him and Pattrik knew that John was testing his new relationship

"Herr John, you were riding in a car with the Spider. Your injuries are collateral damage, we hope." Pattrik stepped out into the light so and leveled his eyes with John by coming down onto his haunches. "We hope your injuries are collateral damage becuase the other three members of the car are dead as a result of the explosion and it would be a shame for three innocent men to die instead of two." Pattrik rose from his lowered stance and moved out of the light towards John's back. John heard a series of knocks on wood and assumed it to be a code to open the door.

"Pattrik!" John said sharply. His lungs rattled with pain. Perhaps he was not as well as he thought he felt? "What is the Spider?"

"Acht, herr John. The Spider is the greatest undercover agent in all of the world. Pray that it died so that you may be free to leave."

And with that, the door opened, then closed, and John was alone in hell.

Apartment 212: Part One

This story was written with no planning and is an exercise in stream of conscience writing.

The alarm was blaring in his ear from the bedside table in apartment 212 of Cheshire St. breet, breet, Breet, BReet, BREet, BREEt, BREET BREET BREET BREET BREET! With a loud and decisive strike did his fist silence the alarm via its conveniently located snooze button. Ten minutes of quiet, serene, alarm-free bliss were enjoyed before his sleep was again disturbed by his alarm. breet, breet, Breet, Bree-.

He sat up in bed muttering to the alarm, “I’m up, I’m up… shut up… Mugnnhh,” before finally reaching over to the table and sliding the switch on his Saiko mini-clock to ‘off’ and then back to ‘on’ so it would not be forgotten in the event of a hectic night. With a small yawn, the final attempt his body played to get him back to sleep, he tossed his sheets over to the side and stepped out from his bed to begin his morning.

The routine was fairly standard by now: dodge the small mounds of mislabeled and misplaced things laying about the floor on the way to the bathroom, turn on the shower so that it could begin its stubborn process of producing hot water, repeat his miniature tango through the bedroom and into the kitchen, do as many dishes as he could in the three minutes it took the shower to warm, and then finish his morning rumba right out of his underwear and into the refreshingly warm water. From there, things were less routine and more spontaneous. What he ate, what he drank, what he watched on the television… all of these things were decided on the spot in a failed effort to be more intriguing and random. As it stood, today was ham and eggs with a cold Bud Light to take the edge off his hangover and no television. Little did he realize that this was exactly what he did the previous day, as it was the day before as well.

Filled with protein and fat (and beer) he changed into the last set of clean clothes he had with a subtle grumble that sounded like “need to do the laundry… quarters…” but could have easily just been the grunting language of your typical bachelor speaking of things better left unknown to the civilized world. With a look of contemplation, he surveyed his own personal disaster zone for a brief moment before closing the door with a “ka-thak” of finality. The day had officially begun.

* * *

It was with a frustrated “ka-chick” that the door to apartment 212 opened only minutes later. Had this been a usual triumphant return home keys would have played a minor percussion symphony as they skittered across the faux marble countertop that doubled as a kitchen shelf; however, this was not a triumphant return. This was the result of way too much fun last night… last Friday night. He looked at the only piece of art he had in the apartment, an original oil on canvas of New Year’s Eve in Times Square but hung crooked, and he smiled. With a simple glance at his reminder that all things change in their own course the day was suddenly flipped from a bad start to just another series of events.

Remembering the laundry that needed to be done, he rummaged about the living room’s piles before finding a basket large enough to handle his used clothing and went to work collecting his garments for what he dubbed “reprocessing.” Reprocessing sounded so much more fun that “doing the laundry,” and was another attempt that he made to keep his life mysterious and intriguing.

Again did he quickly survey his kingdom before shutting the door behind him with a calm “ka-thak,” clothing in hand for reprocessing. Unbeknownst to him, when he returned to his miniature landfill later in the day, his eyes would not be the first to verify that all was right in the land of Apartment 212.