Fury

by Llewellin Jegels

  I shook my head. “If something happens to me, and it won’t, I need you to be there to continue this with Shelley. We’re all she has in this, Mel.”

  “And what if you need your life saved a second time?” he asked me, doing his best to talk me into it. I appreciated it, but this had to be done solo, even if he didn’t want to concede to the point.

  “I won’t, Mel,” I replied calmly. “Please, man. I’ll be fine, it’s Shelley and Rachel we need to focus on here. Trust me.”

  He looked at me for a while, then nodded his head and sat back down. “Don’t get yourself caught. We have no idea who we’re dealing with here.”

  “I won’t, mother.”

  “Good,” he replied. “Otherwise mother will give you a spanking.”

  “I’d approve.”

  He shook his head. “Sick puppy.”

  “Anyway, let’s assume the time is not on our side and let me get the hell out of here, yeah?”

  Shelley made to get up, and I gave her a look of my own.

  “No way in hell,” I said.

  “But-”

  “No.”

  “Shelley, he’s right,” Mel said gently. “This is a job for someone who’s trained for it. And if he won’t let me come along, you don’t stand a chance. Sorry.”

  Surprisingly, she didn’t put up a fight.

  Just sat back down.

  “Be careful Tom,” she said, very softly.

  “Bloody hell,” I said. “It’s beginning to sound like a mantra.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The man in the grey suit sat in his study, on a comfortable chair set into a viewing window from which he could see the city in all its fallen glory. He enjoyed this time of morning best, no doubt about it. He woke at five every morning, regardless of the time of week.

  He respected discipline. He picked up his mug of steaming tea from the small, ornate table beside him and savored the aroma, closing his eyes and letting the herbal brew’s fragrance flush through him before taking a small sip. This too formed part, an important part of his morning routine. He took another, longer sip, before replacing the cup on the table beside him and opened his eyes once more to the view.

  Western culture represented the worst humanity had to offer, he mused. The absolute worst. He truly despised virtually everything about it, and in his mind, the tea set him apart from it. A symbol of his difference. A man set apart.

  The beautiful simplicity of Taiwanese Green Tea intoxicated him. Simply leaves in boiling water, left to brew, it required some getting used to, but one well worth the effort.

  Americans kept expounding the virtues of coffee, like some kind of nectar of the Gods.

  The stuff operated more like crystal meth in a cup, and the very thought of it made him sick to the pit of his stomach. Moreover, the smell disgusted him, enough to put him off hot beverages for life. And yet, it was the number one beverage in the country, followed closely by beer, soda and milkshakes.

  The place portrayed Babylon, no doubt about it, just like every other Western country he’d ever been to, everyone filling their bodies with poison so bad for them. Little wonder anyone still breathed, and those still alive experienced the kind of health problems which could only be attributed to their pathetic diet of burgers, fries, soda, beer and God knew what else sold in every restaurant across the country.

  These people only cared about instant gratification. Why buy a cup of tea if you can have a soda, and why buy a regular soda if you can up size the soda for a dollar?

  Instant gratification and gluttony, clearly the way of Western culture, and it showed no signs of slowing. In fact, the opposite seemed to be true. Every day a new burger joint opened on the market, with more burger patties, smeared with more exotic sauces, and all topped off with the ever present mega-fries and extra-large sodas. It made his head spin.

  And it didn’t end there. Oh, not by a long shot. Grocery stores existed, places which used to mean ‘a place to buy groceries’. Well, the words had an entirely different meaning now compared to then. Nowadays the words meant anything you could stuff into your mouth.

  The sheer volume of processed goods on the shelves overwhelmed him, and none of it held even the slightest nutritional value.

  All garbage. Burger patties, family size boxes of course, which contained virtually no real beef. And every kind of sauce you could imagine, from chocolate to cheese. You could buy whipped cream in a can nowadays, for the love of God.

  Could these people not even whip their own cream? How lazy could people become?

  And then, the worst offender, the worst by a very long margin. Junk food.

  Not the kind of stuff pretending to be real food, spurred on by flashy advertisements about wholesomeness and goodness, but actual junk food. Crisps and chocolates and cookies of every type and size, all designed to give you absolutely nothing but a sugar rush followed by the inevitable crash. Everything in this country contained sugar, it seemed. Everything from sodas to ketchup. They should have put the stuff on the flag if they considered it so damn important to them.

  The man in the grey suit laughed quietly at that image, the stars and stripes, or rather, the burgers and straws.

  Baked goods performed no better than the rest, which saddened him because he actually enjoyed baked goods; something his own mother had loved with all her heart.

  But no.

  No wholesome bran muffins here, no oat cookies prepared lovingly over a hot stove, and served with a glass of real, fresh milk.

  Oh no.

  They packaged everything, factory-made triple chocolate biscuits with cream and sprinkles and anything else they could think of. Sugar, sugar and yet more sugar.

  It made the man in the grey suit sick.

  No wonder the obesity levels here shot off the charts. A disgusting array of food, combined with an incredibly gluttonous population, made for disaster, and disaster had indeed struck. The man in the grey suit shook his head sadly. This country had no redeeming features, in his eyes.

  A taxi drove by below his window, some dissonant sound booming from the speakers. Probably the driver’s definition of music. He strained to hear a few of the lines.

  Sex, bitches, guns.

  Well, America had plenty of all three. It amazed him how much sex injected itself into popular culture nowadays.

  Everything from music to TV commercials portrayed the word sex in some shape or form yet had nothing to do with the carnal act itself. So-called ‘family’ comedy shows on TV had it, so did movies, with their infernal drumbeat of sexual innuendo.

  And of course, the ubiquitous internet, whose primary ‘killer-app’ email had become wildly successful thanks to pornography in all its forms and flavors.

  Hell, they even had entire franchises of sex shops on the main roads, showing off their wares to all and sundry without the slightest hesitation or embarrassment. The shop owners prided themselves on their debauchery, as if one needed to attain sexual perversion, like enlightenment or true happiness.

  The man in the grey suit couldn’t understand it.

  Sex reared its head everywhere and nobody seemed to care. They all seemed content to revel in the debauchery of the sin-filled internet and all other ‘entertainment’ mediums, all the while stuffing their pathetic faces with toxic meats and sauces sandwiched in buns, all of which had about as much in common with real food as a tulip had with a bicycle.

  Blind, gluttonous, pathetic folks.

  Mere sheep, cattle happily chewing the cud, looking out at their pathetic self-serving lives with bovine disinterest and stupidity. It only assisted the major profit-mongering companies in becoming richer and richer.

  Not only food and drink provided these creatures with instant gratification, oh no. Not at all.

  Technology played a huge part too. A huge part. Everyone had to have the latest cell phones, the largest and thinnest TVs, the fastest and flashiest sports cars.

  And their houses! The man in the grey suit sighed.
Homes were no longer places where a family could live together in harmony and love.

  No, in the land of the free, homes reflected the size of the property, the size of the pool, the swanky neighborhood, and the value of the place. All style over substance, a sickening neon sign screaming at passers-by that they were wealthier and therefore better than others.

  It seemed as if the things which defined these people’s lives were no longer matters of the heart, like family, friends, and the good works they would do for their communities, but instead had become toys which served no greater purpose other than making them the envy of all their so called friends. The corporations knew it only too well indeed, and they went out of their way to provide ever more enticing products for the sheep to lap up with pure joy, even ecstasy. Hell, almost every week some new state of the art gadget just hit the shelves, ready to change one’s world for the better.

  Said gadget only altered one thing; the sheep’s bank balance, and not for the better.

  But it didn’t seem to matter anymore either because if they could not afford this latest piece of technical wizardry which promised to change their lives forever, well then they’d just get it on credit and pay it off.

  Get it now. Suffer the consequences later. No going back now as far as the man in the grey suit could see. The sheep wouldn’t go back even if they found a way to.

  Instant gratification in its purest sense, and here to stay.

  The roar of an engine drew his attention, and he looked down to see exactly what drove by. Another shiny red sports car streaking down the still quiet streets, oblivious to the sloth-like people who had not yet risen.

  Late risers. He despised them. People who slept until the sun sat high. If not the worst of the bunch, then at least they almost topped his list. He couldn’t understand that kind of laziness. It felt blasphemous. Those kind of people didn’t deserve the time they were given on this planet. In fact they just wasted it, and if it were up to him, they wouldn’t get it at all.

  The man in the grey suit watched as the fancy sports car disappeared around the corner, wondering what it had triggered in his head.

  He sipped his tea, closing his eyes, and tried to pinpoint it. This tea tasted wonderful, helping him to induce an almost Zen-like state and focus his thoughts to a point which could never be achieved by the docile masses.

  Yes.

  There.

  Right there.

  The car had reminded him of Don Abaid, a man who greatly interested him. A true example of the kind of sheep which drove such a car. He’d seen it often enough on the surveillance equipment. A flashy red Italian make which sounded like a fighter jet and accelerated like one too. It probably cost him a fortune. Or rather, he thought, it must have cost his family a fortune, for they supplied the man with all his wealth.

  He thought of the man himself as nothing but a pathetic specimen, by any standards. Yes, he had a strong physique with chiselled features. All the blatantly superficial nonsense the media paid so much attention to. A child who’d never grown up, living off the wealth of his parents and playing it up like he was the Man. Well, he acted like an insolent little shit who needed to be put in his place.

  He took another sip of his tea, musing over the fall of human civilization while drinking tea, looking out the window. It all formed part of his morning cleansing ritual, and it worked. It helped to sharpen his mind against the day ahead, the continuous blast of human depravity which made up his life here in the States.

  Well, he knew of two people who had left this land of sin in search of the same thug. They’d been stupid enough to travel using their own passports.

  Shelley and GI Joe had clearly thought they were being clever when they’d hired a private jet to take them to Beirut instead of traveling on a commercial airline. But they had obviously failed to realize all records and passenger manifests were digitally stored, regardless of whether you flew commercial or chartered a private plane. The right clearance or the right technology gave one access to any information. They’d made an incredibly stupid assumption, but the man in the grey suit realized Shelley’s intellectual limitations. GI Joe had gone along with it.

  No surprises there at all.

  The prospect of sexual relations no doubt fuelled GI Joe’s gallantry, which would cloud his thinking. Nothing like an enemy fighting two battles at the same time. Well, they were on a journey now, regardless of their stupidity, which he hoped would lead him to Abaid. In essence, the wolf letting the sheep do his work for him.

  And then he remembered.

  Shit.

  How the hell could he have let it happen? A true professional, like himself should not have missed this. He wondered if he’d somehow forgotten his morning ritual the day before and had then forgotten he’d missed it.

  Which meant it had simply slipped his mind during the day, something he could barely comprehend, let alone admit to himself.

  Damn!

  The man in the grey suit picked his cell phone up off the small table beside him, punched in a number and hit ‘call’. Almost immediately, a sleepy voice on the other end answered, “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?”

  “You can wake up for a start, you lazy piece of shit,” the man in the grey suit growled. “You are on call, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” the voice replied, sounding utterly chastened. “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “I thought so.” He felt better now that he had someone to vent his anger on even though the fault lay elsewhere.

  “Sorry, sir,” came the reply. “I’m sorry. I-”

  “Are you awake now?” he asked, calming down. “Do I have your attention?”

  “Yes, sir. You have my full attention,” came the reply, sounding a lot sharper all of a sudden. Hell of a wake-up call, the man in the grey suit thought.

  Good.

  It pays to keep these fools on their feet, keep them on edge. Complacency bred laziness after all. And the man in the grey suit never tolerated laziness. Stupidity being a close second.

  “Good,” he said, keeping his voice even, if not conversational. He didn’t want the guy feeling at ease, just less freaked out. “Very good. Now listen carefully to what I have to say.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need you to do something for me,” he continued. “It may seem like a small thing, but it is of vital importance. Are you with me so far?”

  “Yes, sir,” came the reply. “I’m with you.”

  “Now, I need you to retrieve the surveillance equipment you placed last night,” he continued. “We have no further use for it, and I don’t like having it out in the open for all the world to see.”

  “It’s very well hidden, sir-”

  “I don’t care!” he yelled back. “Do as I say or I will replace you. And I think you know what I mean. Are we clear?”

  “Yes sir,” the person on the other end of the line replied immediately. “I’m on my way.”

  “Now,” the man in the grey suit barked then. “I want you there now, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the voice replied. “I understand completely.”

  “Good. Now go, get a move on.”

  The man in the grey suit hung up, berating himself for not realizing sooner he’d left a piece of surveillance equipment out in the open, unnecessarily. He should have called for its retrieval as soon as he’d received confirmation the Abaid woman and her companion were en route to Beirut. Damn.

  Ah well, he thought, sitting back and once more sipping on the calming tea.

  No one’s perfect.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I sped through the dark city streets like a bat out of hell to get here, using one of Mel’s cars in case our unknown enemies planted bugging equipment in mine or Shelley’s, or worse, they tracked us with infernal GPS.

  We made our way down to the basement garage of Mel’s apartment building, a place more secure than Fort Knox, and probably containing more valuable items. Besides his two bikes, a Ducati super bi
ke and a beautiful and immaculately restored old Harley Davidson, Mel owned five cars, something I both admired and loathed simultaneously. They ranged from the vintage to the exotic to the super-car, all vehicles of true beauty.

  But I couldn’t hold it against him, no matter how jealous I felt looking at all the expensive, gleaming metal parked side by side. If I had his kind of money, I would probably own ten. To be honest, the fact he only owned five showed a certain level of restraint beyond my ability to comprehend.

  To Mel’s mild horror, I chose the rarest and most expensive of the five. After a brief wrestle with his own psyche, he reluctantly handed over the keys, telling me earnestly not to scratch it, or maybe wrap it around a tree.

  I said I wouldn’t, thanked him for his confidence in me, and remarked on the fact he thought of his car as more important than his friend’s life, in a vain and wholly transparent attempt to lighten the mood.

  He just grunted, which I took to represent both his blessing and his undying love for me, his best friend, and promptly got into the car before he could change his mind.

  So I sped through the streets in a sexy, sleek red Ferrari, having pointed out to Mel that we needed to get there as quickly as possible, not mentioning that driving this particular model of Ferrari represented the closest thing to an orgasm I could think of. I didn’t think it relevant to bring up the utter joy I felt when he handed me the keys, not wanting him to get the wrong idea of course.

  Regular rear-view mirror checks revealed no tails. We’d been too careful, to the point of paranoia. I doubted anyone, including the cops, could keep up with a car like this. You’ve got to love the Italians.

  I pulled over about a block away from my apartment building, and walked the rest of the way on the other side of the road from it, looking out for the surveillance device hidden in the trees as I did so.

  The prevailing darkness offered no assistance, but fortunately the streetlights gave off enough light to see into the branches if I strained my eyes a bit. In the absence of a viable alternative, I accepted my fate.