08-13-2009

HAPPY INTERNATIONAL LEFT HANDER'S DAY!



Start Fiction:


     The temperature in the bistro seemed to rise. Erik felt a bead of sweat run down his forehead. Sitting in the corner booth wasn't such a good idea, especially now that he was up against professionals; and two just walked in the bistro.
     Erik hoped the fact that he was so new to the trade that he wouldn't be recognized as quickly. No such luck today. The two men motioned to each other and made their way towards Erik.
     The larger of the two men was built like a linebacker; solid frame, penetrating stare and fluid in his movements. He had a scar across his forehead that made his appearance even more intimidating. The suit he was wearing was a tailored fit, and his shoes were unnaturally shiny.
     The other guy was more portly, definitely not in shape. He had a solid build, but Erik didn't think he could run more than a block or two before being exhausted. His flat top told Erik he was old school in thought and tactic. Hopefully his new school tactics would counter those tactics effectively, as he was sure they would. Even though he had cornered himself, he had several options available, and only one involved lethal means.
     The men sat at the table across from Erik. They grabbed their menus, said nothing, did nothing. Erik drank his water, making slow deliberate movements. He stared ahead, watching the door while keeping an eye on his new friends.
     "Fried squirrel," the portly man said as though he was reading it off his menu.
     I'm not making any new contacts today, Erik thought. Is this a test to see if I'll break protocol? he continued to drink his water, not batting an eye. These men were up to something, and Erik didn't really care what their angle was, but he had a feeling they were going to make him care, and soon.
     The bigger man got up and went to the bathroom. Even though Erik's target had not arrived, he decided to vacate the bistro and approach his target from another angle. This thought came to him since one on one with the portly fellow seemed more acceptable in case they didn't want him to leave.
     Erik slid out of his booth and dipped in to his pocket for the tip. He jingled the change in his pocket; in his mind it would give the impression he wasn't reaching for a weapon. What he didn't realize was it was in fact an old school tactic of distraction.
     The portly man jumped up, moving much faster than
Erik had anticipated. He pulled a knife from an ankle holster and lunged towards Erik as he moved just in time to throw a deflection, knocking the knife from the man's hand and landing a blow to his face sending him back over the table.
     Damn,Erik thought, Training did me some good.
     The portly man remained in the floor, rolling around holding his face. For some reason Erik expected him to get back up, instead his partner, the linebacker, came charging down the hallway from the bathroom.
     Erik wanted to flee, but he knew he had to take a stand and make a name for himself. That, and he was pretty sure this guy could chase him down and would kill him just the same.
     The linebacker threw a series of jabs, Erik was unsure their origin. With each jab he moved Erik back one step at a time. Erik held the defensive, waiting for the moment to strike.
     Patience, he told himself as the fury of jabs continued.
     The linebacker began to conduct a reverse kick, Erik countered with a sweep of his pivot foot. The linebacker fell, hard, on to a table with a loud crack; wood splintered in the explosion. The linebacker let out a scream, a death cry. Erik step forward as the man slid down a leg of a chair that had impaled him sticking out of his chest, blood ran everywhere.
     Erik decided it was time to disappear. He ran to the back hall and stepped on the portly man who was still on the floor. He blew through the emergency exit, in to the alley and ran in to the darkness.
     I guess I passed my first test.


End Fiction.