MBA - Moron$ Ba$ and A$$

by Jeff Blackwell

  Chapter Forty-Five

  I’m Free

  Now that my head has cleared, I am pretty sure Dusty drugged me and dragged me here. As I look around, I realize that I’m in a control room that we shuttered after the Elwood fire. It is scheduled for demolition next year with the rest of this burned out section of the plant. The room has maintained a roof and four walls but is otherwise a husk of burnt embers. It still stinks of soot and mildew from the fire hose spray. I’m pretty sure I do too. I have managed to chew thru the duct tape that she used to cover my mouth. While it tasted like crap, I’m sure it stuck to my ribs (har,har). That does me a whole lot of good. There is no need to waste my voice. While all the windows are gone, I could yell for days and not be heard over the general roar of the plant operations. Also, I’m afraid if I yell too loud this fragile roof might come crashing down. But, that might not make much difference. In several days, I’ll be dead from dehydration, hunger and raging pissed-offedness anyway. I need to get out of here on my own as soon as possible. However, my hands and feet are still pretty well bound. Of all the MBAs in the world, we have to get the one who earned a merit badge in duct tape bondage.

  As I think back over the last few days (hours – who knows?), I seem to remember not being alone the whole time. Had Dusty come back to check on me and then curl up beside me? I don’t think so. Then who or what have I been snuggling with? I also note that I had not, to relay this delicately, soiled myself either front or back. So I must not have been here all that long. I am able to wiggle a bit back and forth. Maybe if I rub my wrists vigorously across the concrete floor under me, I can loosen up these bindings.

  Thirty minutes later I am calling Mr. Duct and his reinforced sticky product every name in the book. And I think I dislocated several muscles and bones between my hands and my shoulders. Damn you, Mr. DT!!!!!

  What seems like hours later finds me seething, sore and still on the floor. I’m afraid my mind is starting to go again. I think I hear scraping and panting underneath one of the missing windows. As I turn to look that direction, a large four legged bat comes flying through the window, makes a three point landing several feet in front of my head and rolls over about six times. Great. I must be asleep and I’m dreaming about huge flying rodents. Can I at least go back to my standard dream involving the Swedish Bikini Team, vegetable oil and a Nerf football?

  As the bat rises from the floor, I realize several things at once. I am not sleeping and the bat is real, not a dream. However, bats don’t have four legs, big pointy noses and fluffy tails, do they? On closer examination, I conclude it isn’t a bat. It’s Bread the Wonder dog!!!!!!

  Bread ambles over to me and licks my face until I think the skin is being worn off. All I can do is laugh with pure joy. He must have been here earlier sleeping against me and has now come back. Are dogs God’s gift to mankind, or what? Finally the newness of the happy canine and owner’s best friend reunion wears off. Bread takes a few steps back, lies down and stares at me with his head cocked to one side. I stare back trying to figure out a way for Bread to save the day.

  “Bread, I’m not Timmy and I have not fallen down a well, but I do need you to go find Earl and bring him here.”

  Wag, wag, slobber slobber.

  Why would I expect Bread to understand English? Heck, Earl barely understands English.

  I roll over and show my bound wrists to Bread.

  “Bread, come chew on these. Yum, yum.” I actually smacked my lips. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Pant, pant, whimper whimper.

  “Arrrgggg.” Think. Despite the drugging, my pissy attitude, thirst, hunger and an increasing bladder urge, I am struck by a moment of pure genius. I thrust my silver encrusted wrists toward Bread and sharply bark (snicker), “Ball!”

  Bread rises (snicker deux) and leaps on my wrists like a tornado on a trailer home. Somehow he manages to get his teeth into the tape without lacerating any major veins, bones or other assorted important Mick parts. He furiously shakes his head back and forth. Normally, I might be screaming in terror at this point, but normal has left town. All I can do is yell over and over, “Good boy! Good boy!”

  With a mighty rip, my hands come free and Bread runs off with a huge wad of Mr. DT’s product hanging from his jaws. Now that I have working opposable thumbs again, I tear at the tape on my legs until it comes loose.

  I stand and shout in my best Mel Gibson voice, “Freedom!”