by RyFT Brand
way too tired to get into this now.” I pointed to the door. “Go get DJ…please.”
Parry grumbled as he slipped into his jacket. “Just when I think things can’t get worse, somehow you manage. How do you do it Jazz?”
I let a little smile stretch my lips. “I learned from the best.” I pulled a rolled up cloth from my pocket and tossed it to him. “And have this dry cleaned.”
Surprisingly, he caught it then let it unroll. The long tie touched the floor. “I’m not even going to ask.”
“Good,” I said.
Parry balled up the tie and walked out.
I breathed a sigh of relief; alone at last. I carefully slipped the arm of my burned shoulder out of my jacket and hung it on a peg. The jacket was still heavy with weaponry and I was thankful to lose the weight. Then I hung the holster with my macdaddy revolver beside it, unlaced my moccasins and slipped my weary feet free.
My skirt was torn to shreds, my favorite too. All that was in the office was my ‘working clothes.’ So I changed the skirt for my leather pants with the concealed armor plating. They might not sound comfortable, but they were. Partly because I’d worn them, and fought in them, so much that they were well worn in. Also because of the sense of security they gave me. I changed my cotton blouse with my long-sleeved padded shirt. I left my leather, armor plated jacket hanging on its hook.
I was still thirsty, and hungry, but more tired. I let myself flop dead weight on the couch. Rest at last. I let my eyelids slam closed and instantly felt myself spiraling down into a deep, deep sleep, and I eagerly indulged in the rest of the truly exhausted. I was too tired even for dreams, so my mind was adrift in an endless ocean of darkness. Then something in the darkness exploded.
With an effort of impossible strength, like an ant lifting a bowling ball, I heaved my eyelids open. The office was pitch black, way darker then it should have been. Slower than I’d care to admit, awareness flooded back into my brain, someone had cut the power, and the explosion hadn’t been a dream at all, it had been my office door.
Adrenaline shot through my system and I leapt to my feet. But something dark, and large, and strong knocked me to the floor. I scrambled to get back on my feet but a hairy paw pressed my head to the floor. I couldn’t see and I couldn’t breath. I kicked and struck my fists at the hairy arm, but it felt like I was striking a hair-covered oak tree. My head swam and nausea tickled my belly, then, with spots swirling before my eyes, I again descended into unconsciousness.
…to be continued.
-Next Time-
Jazz is the grip of a mean little troll named Boss Geeter, a self-proclaimed crime leader in a world officially free of crime. Jazz is still week, tired, hungry, and hurt from her latest string of misfortunes, and Geeter has no qualms about inflicting pain in order to extract information. But Jazz isn’t one to talk, even if a little pain and death is inflicted.
Jazz, Monster Collector, season one, episode six: Of Fai, Fire, and Fur
I hope you’ve enjoyed this Jazz adventure.
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www.RiftsRants.com