This story is by Rebecca Quigley and was part of our 2017 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the Summer Writing Contest stories here.
“Stop!” I hiss, my exasperation boiling over.
I’m an independent contractor and I have a reputation for excellence in certain circles of the CIA. They know I do my best work when given some artistic license, but I’m going to have to be downright brilliant to fix this one. It was a perfect storm of coincidences that resulted in both these idiots dosed. The Russian president AND his trusted guard? Damn. I wish I’d had the intel about the two men’s special relationship. Apparently, they have similar proclivities when it comes to women and drugs. They also share an inclination for voyeurism and exhibitionism. They take turns watching. Eww. It’s no wonder they keep that little tidbit quiet, especially in light of Russia’s new ‘morality code.’ Hypocrites.
The two men are large, the president in girth, and the bodyguard in almost every other way. He looks kind of like the Gorilla Glue mascot if that gorilla had been pickled in vodka for a few decades.
At my command, they both freeze like children playing “Simon Says” on the playground. An uncharacteristic giggle escapes my lips despite the situation. I’ve never been one to resist a bit of fun, and I have about six hours until the scopolamine, and its compliance, wears off. Six hours to off one buffoon and get the other back to his room without any of the 12 guards outside the suite’s door crashing our little party. They’re like carp in a river out there.
But I hate to waste an opportunity to be entertained. It’s my biggest pet peeve.
This job was supposed to be the uber cliche honey trap. It’s a classic since most men think with their dicks first and their brains second. These two stop at their dicks, and luckily the president isn’t capable of a whole lot of ‘thinking.’ I hoped Viktor, the privileged bodyguard, wouldn’t try to usurp his boss’s authority.
It was such a simple plan to position myself as the President’s favorite flavor of escort. I’d play right into his fondness for sampling a bit of the ol’ American apple pie. I just had to swap the scopolamine for his beloved blow, and voila! The drug would work its magic. When his brain turned to putty, I’d inject an air bubble into his vein. He was diabetic. I wouldn’t even have to disguise the needle mark.
Bingo-Bango!!. Easy-peasy, right? No such luck.
Just as we sit down to cut the first line of the scopola-dope (I’m gonna trademark that one day) Magilla Gorilla lumbers in and hoovers the second line into his face before I can assess the deteriorating situation. Where did he even come from? Was he in the closet, for God’s sake? These two are awfully familiar if he’s gonna let his bodyguard do his drugs and watch him screw a hooker. I guess I can’t judge since I’m the hooker in this scenario.
Back to my little game.
“Okay, gentlemen,” I say with my best Donna Summer’s voice, “Do the hustle!”
God, I wish I could make them twerk. But Russia is a little behind the times, and I’ll get a better show if I stick to what they know. Some credit though, for a former KGB officer and a pig-headed dictator, these two have got some serious moves! It’s just the tension breaker I need. I breathe deeply to calm my brain. Time to get back to business.
Scopolamine is a hell of a drug. It makes everyone so damned agreeable.
“Both of you, sit on the couch.”
They obey and plop their bulky frames on the sofa, right on the edge of the tray holding the drugs. A cloud billows up and right into my face. Shit.
The room starts to shrink, but I should have a few minutes before my body ditches my mind. I visualize the scene I’ll need to leave to make this shit-show seem plausible. Hmm, a bodyguard gone rogue. Not ideal but it should work. I only have a minute to orchestrate it, and then I’ll be checking out. Super shit.
“Viktor,” I gasp to the bodyguard, “I want you to smother the president with that pillow and wipe down the room. After that, go out into the hallway and inform your comrades that the president doesn’t want to be disturbed. Also, tell them that disco isn’t dead and you are the lord of the dance. Then go back to your room.” It’s still funny.
I speed-dial my assistant “Margo, initiate protocol 12.”
Accidental ingestion is a contingency for which I’ve planned. Scopolamine is no joking matter. I like to have fun, but I also take my job seriously.
The last thing I see is Viktor pressing the pillow over the face of the president, who gives zero resistance. I hear the door swing open and whisper shut again. Viktor’s deadpan voice floats through the thick door. As he proclaims his love of the dance, a wry grin spreads across my face, and I fade out. Now that’s good entertainment.
Coming to my senses a few hours later, I hear Margo on my cell, expertly guiding me to safety. I look down to see I’m wearing floral stretch pants and a shapeless WHAM! shirt. On my feet are saddle shoes, (seriously?) and I have thick black-rimmed glasses on my nose. The hat perched on my head would make Johnny Depp green with envy. Apparently, Margo also has a sick sense of humor in the face of urgency.
“Margo?” I interrupt her.
“When did we get a hipster-themed bug-out bag?”
There was an amused snort, “Sorry, Boss.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” I say grinning.
The next day, every channel was abuzz with breaking news about the assassination of the Russian president by his trusted, disco-obsessed bodyguard gone rogue. My artistic license may get stretched at times, but I always get the job done.
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