Due to my inability to prepare for the improbable, I could be found comfortably snuggled up in a bed of moldy burlap, in the back of a jostling, disintegrating van, drooling slightly from my drug induced nap, no doubt being transported directly to my death.
Frankly, I never expected to be kidnapped by the Irish mob. As a Flagstaff boy, born and bred in that same sleepy town my whole life and having no real social connections outside of a diner frequented only by the elderly, I don't believe that assumption was much of an oversight on my part.
The drugs finally wore off after some time and I woke up, hyperventilating slightly over my current condition.
Judging by the immeasurable pain pounded steadily in my head that eerily matched the rhythm of my erratic pulse, I came to the conclusion an over-enthusiastic, heavy metal drummer had previously used my skull to add a unique beat to his band.
After a moment of panicked and painful reflection, I noticed two alarming things about my situation:
One, my current quarters smelt distinctly of dirty feet and decaying corpses. Whether or not they were human, I didn’t want to know.
And two, my hands were pathetically untied. I was both insulted and relieved. Wasn't I dangerous enough in their eyes to be restrained? Sure, I was a little short and my muscle mass needed some fine tuning, but I could still hold my own in a fight.
I sat up, head spinning at a sickening rate. The vehicle lurched, adding more nausea to my concussed state.
Admittedly, rather uneasy as to what I would discover, I peered over at the driver’s seat; a large, intimidatingly muscular man sat on the old carpeted chair. Now I understood why they felt there was no need to tie me up.
As quietly as possible, I scooted across the burlap stuffed van. I grasped the rusted door latch; it squeaked under pressure. The tumbling, withering vehicle covered my amateur slip. With a hesitant heave, I pushed the door open, and watched the unfamiliar dusty terrain roll past me.
I didn’t actually want to jump and add further injury to myself. However, the thought of staying in the company of my captor any longer compelled me otherwise. So, with a short, yet undoubtedly sincere prayer, I leapt.
I crashed onto the flaking asphalt, my ankle promptly spraining upon impact. The strange white van slipped away, unaware of it's missing cargo. Clambering to my feet, limping slightly, I let out a disoriented whoop of glee that echoed hollowly through the rocky mountains.
A brash bleating cry turned my head around. Standing on the side of the highway, watching me with boring eyes, was an unimpressed old man, thickly surrounded by a horde of crapping goats.
“Morning,” I said, in an attempt to alleviate my embarrassment.
The farmer just stared at me, clearly not pleased with my youthful antics.
“Just got dropped off," I said, gesturing to the fading van. "Can you tell me where we are, sir?"
“Kuboes,” the farmer rumbled.
“That’s in Kansans, right?”
“South Africa.”
Oh, shit.
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