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Oct. 29th, 2007 07:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
khiemtranThe police shot me twice as I opened the door. There's just no accounting for good manners any more.
My name is Martin Tse and I work in Quality Assurance. Getting shot isn't in my job description, it's just something that happens to me all the time.
I came to just as they were trying to cuff me. I managed to throw off two officers and I think I might have broken the arm of one of them. Impolite of me, but I'm always a little clumsy with a jacketed round or two in my head. A third fell back against a table and smashed one of the hotel's vases. I winced at that. That will be on my bill.
More shots were fired and the room was filled with noise and light. In the confusion, I didn't get hit myself and the police were lucky enough not to hit each other. Pulling myself together, I managed to push my way past one of them and out of the room.
Out to the corridor. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing yet, but my head is pounding. I feel my forehead sweat and cool, and then, like a cork from a bottle, a battered 9mm slug pops up through my skull on onto the floor. Better out than in, but that's going to hurt in the morning.
All these hotels look alike after a while. Which way are the stairs? I run past a startled maid with a linen cart, the police no doubt close behind. My mind is working well enough now to know I certainly don't want to get shot after my medication wears off.
For some reason, it's always the minor planets that cause the most trouble. And it always seems to be me who pulls the minor planets. This time it's a company selling plumbing for pet houses, of all things. How can that get me shot twice in my hotel room, just four hours after the spaceport?
Down the stairs, and ... uh oh. The stairway is also full of cops. This time they're carrying shotguns. My headache is bad enough as it is already.
Back into the corridor, as the first shots ring out. Pet plumbing. Why couldn't it be something safe like ... well, I was going to say stationery supplies, but, come to think of it, I got shot on that one too. I'm beginning to think I should have a talk to my boss Gerald when I get back.
Back past the maid, who shrieks and ducks behind the linen cart. At least the police behind me hold their fire. Perhaps I was wrong about the manners on this planet. Past the door to my room and - whoops - I've forgotten my medication. I double back and crash into a wide-eyed police officer who is just coming out. The second bullet pops from my shoulder as I hit the ground. Ah, that's better.
Grab my pills and my briefcase. More shots and there's plaster flying off the walls. No time to take my luggage. The first of the other police make it to the door way and I'm staring down a shotgun barrel. Time for the window.
The windows in these hotel rooms are usually heavily reinforced, but luckily mine has been presofteed by a number of fresh bullet holes. It shatters as I crash through, and suddenly I'm out in the cool air of the night, sixteen stories up.
Heading down, I glimpse the usual sorts of scenes you see in these business hotels. A weary traveller sitting on a bed with his shoes off and his jacket off and shirt undone, watching a video from home. A smartly dressed woman talking on her phone by her window in the room below, her mouth opening in an expression of surprise. A fat man shifting through his crumpled luggage in dismay and wondering how he's going to get his suit pressed at this hour.
The street looms quickly below me. My headache is getting worse.
Splat. My suit gets a pressing of its own as I land on the roof of a passing taxi. Or rather, through the roof, since the roof itself comes off even worse than I do. It takes a second or two for the pain to catch up, and then the headache is gone completely from my mind. For the next five or six seconds, I'm on my own little minor planet of hurt, and then the taxi crashes, careering into a police car driven by a wide-eyed man wearing a chef's uniform.
By the time I've recovered my senses, he's got a sweaty arm around my neck and a gun against my temple.
"Stay back you Government lackeys!" he screams at the circle of advancing local police. "Come any closer and the foreigner gets it!"
My head is still aching. My medication is wearing off.
"Look," I say. "You've got the wrong man..."
My name is Martin Tse and I work in Quality Assurance. Getting shot isn't in my job description, it's just something that happens to me all the time.
I came to just as they were trying to cuff me. I managed to throw off two officers and I think I might have broken the arm of one of them. Impolite of me, but I'm always a little clumsy with a jacketed round or two in my head. A third fell back against a table and smashed one of the hotel's vases. I winced at that. That will be on my bill.
More shots were fired and the room was filled with noise and light. In the confusion, I didn't get hit myself and the police were lucky enough not to hit each other. Pulling myself together, I managed to push my way past one of them and out of the room.
Out to the corridor. I'm not quite sure what I'm doing yet, but my head is pounding. I feel my forehead sweat and cool, and then, like a cork from a bottle, a battered 9mm slug pops up through my skull on onto the floor. Better out than in, but that's going to hurt in the morning.
All these hotels look alike after a while. Which way are the stairs? I run past a startled maid with a linen cart, the police no doubt close behind. My mind is working well enough now to know I certainly don't want to get shot after my medication wears off.
For some reason, it's always the minor planets that cause the most trouble. And it always seems to be me who pulls the minor planets. This time it's a company selling plumbing for pet houses, of all things. How can that get me shot twice in my hotel room, just four hours after the spaceport?
Down the stairs, and ... uh oh. The stairway is also full of cops. This time they're carrying shotguns. My headache is bad enough as it is already.
Back into the corridor, as the first shots ring out. Pet plumbing. Why couldn't it be something safe like ... well, I was going to say stationery supplies, but, come to think of it, I got shot on that one too. I'm beginning to think I should have a talk to my boss Gerald when I get back.
Back past the maid, who shrieks and ducks behind the linen cart. At least the police behind me hold their fire. Perhaps I was wrong about the manners on this planet. Past the door to my room and - whoops - I've forgotten my medication. I double back and crash into a wide-eyed police officer who is just coming out. The second bullet pops from my shoulder as I hit the ground. Ah, that's better.
Grab my pills and my briefcase. More shots and there's plaster flying off the walls. No time to take my luggage. The first of the other police make it to the door way and I'm staring down a shotgun barrel. Time for the window.
The windows in these hotel rooms are usually heavily reinforced, but luckily mine has been presofteed by a number of fresh bullet holes. It shatters as I crash through, and suddenly I'm out in the cool air of the night, sixteen stories up.
Heading down, I glimpse the usual sorts of scenes you see in these business hotels. A weary traveller sitting on a bed with his shoes off and his jacket off and shirt undone, watching a video from home. A smartly dressed woman talking on her phone by her window in the room below, her mouth opening in an expression of surprise. A fat man shifting through his crumpled luggage in dismay and wondering how he's going to get his suit pressed at this hour.
The street looms quickly below me. My headache is getting worse.
Splat. My suit gets a pressing of its own as I land on the roof of a passing taxi. Or rather, through the roof, since the roof itself comes off even worse than I do. It takes a second or two for the pain to catch up, and then the headache is gone completely from my mind. For the next five or six seconds, I'm on my own little minor planet of hurt, and then the taxi crashes, careering into a police car driven by a wide-eyed man wearing a chef's uniform.
By the time I've recovered my senses, he's got a sweaty arm around my neck and a gun against my temple.
"Stay back you Government lackeys!" he screams at the circle of advancing local police. "Come any closer and the foreigner gets it!"
My head is still aching. My medication is wearing off.
"Look," I say. "You've got the wrong man..."
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no subject
Date: 2007-10-29 02:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-10-30 06:05 am (UTC)