They were giving me the look a fat cat does the goldfish in the bowl. It was a look of hunger, a hunger for something, but with a look of indecisiveness. When you’re a Journalist, you’re trained to see the little details, to take in the small expressions, unimportant little details like colors and texture. Exact size to the centimeter and brown freckle in the iris. You learn to read expressions to give you room to slander in the upcoming headliner. It’s almost a job to look too closely, to see the things that no one really cares about, but will notice if it isn’t there in the sentence. Jodi, a 101.53 pound 15 year old, shot her 300 pound father in his sun scarred skin and purple satin pajamas. How any normal person would know or care, no one can really say.
“What are we doing Carter?” The man sporting the dorky purple shirt asks the one “with the nose”. Apparently the name is Carter.
This Carter, he’s thin, slightly anorexic maybe. His nose nearly takes over his thin shaped face. I can see little black hairs poking from his left nostril and his ears. He steps over to me and takes a closer look at my face. As his nose grows larger and his mouth gaping wider, I wonder if he’s ever heard of tweezers or Orbit gum. Maybe even Crest toothpaste. His front teeth are slightly crooked with the yellow streaks of a long term smoker. A visible cavity spotted black on the top of his front molar and his face is cratered from the hard acne years of a teenage boy. I wonder if he always looked so homely.
“We’re waiting.” Carter breathed his rancid breath on me. Screw the gum; he’s going to need extensive surgery to cure his halitosis.
“For what? We already gave her the medication. She doesn’t need anymore!” The purple blotch moves in the corner of my eye. I’m too focused on Carter’s pocked skin to take too much notice it. I know enough, though, to realize that the flannel is advancing.
Carter pulls away quickly to confront the flannel. “Joe! We are waiting! We need to wait to make sure it settles in!” He’s pushing Joe, flannel, away. No one else bothers to make a move.
Switchblade keeps clicking and snapping. If only my hands weren’t tied…
Joe is gulping the air in anger. “I don’t want to get caught, Carter! We don’t need the cops coming and seeing this! The military already knows we’re on to what’s going on!”
Military? I’ve become involved in military affairs? If this was military related, then why are these five average Joes gagging me on their socks and bothering to deal with a Journalist? Have I become host to a governmentally experimented fetus? Am I host to the first super soldier? This gag needs to come off. If they’re going to be impregnating me with some demon-seed, I deserve some answers too.
My teeth grind on the thick sock. A gross taste of salt and must comes from the sock. If I vomit, I’ll only drown. But anything is better than this taste.
“Mike, come here.” Carter beckons the unshaven man.
“Yeah boss?” Some people are obvious about not enjoying their jobs… if you can call this a job.
Carter whisks something from his pocket and keeps sure to keep it away from my sight. They’re turned around and whispering something, Carter handing the mysterious object from his hand to Mike’s beefy, pink meat hooks. I’ve begun to grind harder and sweat more. Tiny threads are beginning to fill my mouth. I’d rather choke on a sock string hairball than birth a Satan child.
They turn and I know they’ve heard the grinding of my teeth. I do not want their toxic test tube baby.
