The Warehouse

thethemeis: Shame
theauthoris: LiamD

   ‘It’s a real shame y’know,’ a ridiculously stereotyped Brooklyn accent tells me as I awaken. Like most voices I hear for the first time, this one sounds familiar, yet I can’t quite place my finger on where I have heard it before. Perhaps I never will. Much of my body aches and a connection between my physical state and the passive aggressive tone of my acquaintance becomes apparent. I cautiously open my eyes and try to stop them widening in shock when they see the gun pointed toward my face, close enough for me to read the embossed ‘COLT’ and patent information that runs across the steel barrel. The hand inside the leather glove that holds the pistol steady belongs to a well-dressed young man with clean, slicked-back hair. If he wasn’t pointing a gun at a man bound to a chair who had been asleep not two minutes ago, I might have thought him respectable.

   ‘A guy with your… skills… could make a lot of money working for the boss.’ he tempts. In spite of myself, I have to disguise a suicidal snigger at his pronunciation of the last word, and how it could almost rhyme with paws. He pauses for a moment, perhaps awaiting a response. If so, I don’t give him one. Instead I think about the connotations of what he is saying. If someone has found out what I do, I can sure see the potential benefits of having me as a ‘friend’. The problem is, my little trick is far from reliable, and if these people are as shady as this gentleman implies, I doubt they would have much sympathy or patience on my ‘off’ days. My best hope at this stage is escape.

   ‘What’s going on? Who are you?’ I ask in what I hope is a confused tone. I scan the room in front of me, trying not to move my head too much. The last thing I want to do is excite his trigger finger.

   The room we’re in is some sort of warehouse, I’ve gathered that much. Behind my captor is a large, green-coated machine with a jagged metal feed tray that disappears into its belly and presumably connects to the long conveyor belt emerging from it’s rear end. It’s neighboured at either side by identical machines in a row which spans the entire width of the room – about one hundred metres give or take. There must be at least thirty of these beasts in total. From the messy spats of ink on and around each unit I guess them to be industrial printers. Whatever they are they clearly haven’t been used in a while, and that thought above all others scares me; I can’t think of many reasons to bring someone to a place like this.

   ‘If you don’t quit with that “Where am I?” shit, you get a bullet in your skull, capisce?’ This time I don’t dream of laughing, all the faux-humour from his face has faded and I’m left eyeballing an angry man with a gun. I nod slowly. His voice, that which was earlier so deceptively good-natured and breathy, is now harsh and nasal.

   ‘I’m trying to help you here, pal. Not many people get a second chance after crossing the boss.’ He sighs, as if genuinely distressed at my predicament, or perhaps at himself for losing patience, before continuing in his previous warmer tone. ‘Killing you… that would be a real shame.’ I feel my aching muscles tighten as he speaks the worst aloud. Is murder his priority? I’m not convinced, but the thought of it still frightens me. His eyes have something about them. They are the cold blue eyes of a killer.

   This may just be the worst case scenario playing out before my eyes. Even if I can loosen this rope that binds my hands together there’s no cover nearby, no getting away from a jerk of his index finger and the bullet that would follow.

   ‘Last chance, bub. Whaddya say…’ he is cut off mid-sentence by a shrill ringing coming from a nearby desk. After racking my brains I recognise it as the sound of an old-fashioned phone. The phone he answers is in fact ancient by todays standards, not that I have any idea what day it is…

   ‘Y’ello?’ he pauses after answering and makes subtle improvements to his mannerisms, some visual. ‘…Yeah I’m here with him now boss…’

   While he’s distracted I frantically examine my immediate area, there must be something around here that can help me escape a bullet in the head. I realise I’m panicking and force myself to calm down. Closing my eyes, I count to five slowly, then open them and take a fresh look around. Nothing too far away can help me, I’ve established that. What is there nearby? I come close to giving up hope when my head droops and I finally see it. There, on the floor no more than thirty centimetres to the right of my chair, is the solution to my problem.

   ‘…Are you sure? Think of the things he could do for y… …yes boss, I’m sorry, whatever you say… no boss, you won’t have to do that at all, I’ll get right on it…’ He turns back to me sporting a grim smile, apparently not noticing the serene expression that has replaced the flood of anxiety I had previously felt. His telephone conversation and morbid grin should leave me unnerved, but instead I’m feeling the enchanting pulse of excitement, maybe even with a hint of confidence.

   ‘Sorry, kid.’ He says. ‘Looks like you should’ve taken the lifeline while you had the chance.’ He raises the colt so it’s once again pointed towards my face, tells me one last time:

   ‘It’s such a shame,’

   then fires his weapon.