A continuation of Story Virus v2.
I have been re-infected by one of my direct infectees.
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.
(Splotchy)
I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno’d-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It’s like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.
Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.
Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read.
(Bubs)
My addition:
The handwriting of the letter was different than the envelope. It was more rushed, erratic. And it was all in Russian. I could speak a little Russian because of the company I used to keep, but couldn’t read it to save my life. I knew some people that could translate for me, but I wasn’t about to see them again. Or did one of them write the note? Was it Dimitri the Finger? Petrov? Ivankovich?
I looked at the lawyer’s card — “Tom Ely” — how whitebread, how American. The address said Niceville, but the phone number’s area code was New Jersey. I dialed and waited. My dogs fought over a leftover bone outside, growling.
“Hello, this is Tom Ely, I am sorry I have missed your call…”
I didn’t recognize the voice. It had the barest trace of an accent. Most people wouldn’t pick up on it. But I did.
The Russians. What was I in for? I hung up.
Was I just going to sit here, waiting? Or was I going to be a good little dog when some person unseen rang my bell?
The ticket was for today. I could make the flight if I left immediately. I packed a bag and caught a cab to the airport.
(Splotchy)
Please continue this story virus.
I tag:
I tagged you back too.