José gently massaged his wrist and winced. Every time he touched where the handcuffs had been, it was like pouring pickle juice on a paper cut. Which José had done before. He didn't remember the context.
In addition to his wrist, his head was still pounding from whatever had led to his nap in the hotel room. His shirt was also still sticky with the blood of that poor unfortunate in the room with him.
The cops in this locality were not an improvement on the garden variety fascists back home. In fact, on a scale of one to Nazi, he'd give these guys a solid eight. He hadn't had a passport or any cash for them to take, so they'd satisfied themselves with beating the crap out of him and grunt-shouting in whatever the hell language they spoke here. East Moldavian?
José wracked his brain. These assholes didn't seem like the kind to tune in to official channels, so a call to the U.S. embassy wasn't in the offing. He had nothing to offer as a bribe. So that left him with being stuck here until whoever was responsible for this felt like coming along to explain.
As if on cue, a door down the corridor creaked open and several sets of booted footprints came clomping down toward his cell.
Three figures, backlit by fluorescents, hove into view. A clanking of keys. The squeal of a cell door that only likes to be closed. Then the figures stepped inside. Two giant jail-goons...and Jefferson Wilkes.
"Wilkes. You miserable son of a bitch," spat José. "Come to gloat?"
One of the uniformed apes grunted something in East Moldarish or whatever. Then the other one shoved Wilkes forward. Wilkes fell off balance and careened right into José.
The handsomer of the two guards (they were both ugly as hell, but one had fewer warts) spat on the ground where Wilkes had been standing, they slammed the cell door and the uglier one (again, it was a pretty tight contest) picked his nose as they walked back down the hall.
Even with his sore wrists, José managed to shove Wilkes away. "Get off me, you asshole."
Wilkes collapsed on the bunk beside José. "My apologies, Beigey. You understand that I was not in control of my positioning just now."
José jumped up and walked as far away from Wilkes as the cell would allow. "What is this?" he asked. "What are you doing in East Moldavia and why the hell are you in this cell?"
Wilkes pulled out a handkerchief that José would bet fifty bucks was monogrammed. He dabbed at the blood dripping from his nose. "I told you back home, Beigey, that there were other parties interested in the whereabouts of Mrs. Richards."
"Yeah," José countered, "you also said you'd 'positively die for a decent bowl of grits' but you're not dead, so..."
Wilkes stood up and tried to neaten himself up as much as the situation allowed. "I assure you, Beigey, that I am not responsible for your incarceration. Nor, at this point, do I know who is. You and I are very much in the same boat."
"I would much, much rather drown than share a boat with you. If were on the Titanic, I'd have jumped into the Atlantic long before the iceberg."
"I understand the venomous nature of your regard toward me. We have had a...contentious relationship thus far in our careers."
José cackled at that. "I prefer to put it in terms of you're a giant piece of shit."
Wilkes continued, "Be that as it may, Beigey, we find ourselves mired in the same circumstances and it might behoove us to consider setting our differences aside...and working together to escape our predicament."
At that point, José had to work indescribably hard to keep himself from throttling Wilkes, whose love of multisyllabic words grated on José's nerves like a waiter putting extra parmesan on your rigatoni table-side. As annoying as he was, though, José had to concede the point.
"Fine. But the moment we're out of this country, I'm going to punch you in the balls."
"Fair enough."
To be continued! In podcast form!
Happy Birthday, José!
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