Topless Agenda

by Lyle Christie

  At last, my food arrived, and I had something else to take up my attention. I took a bite, but, when I looked back to the other end of the bar, the woman in red had mysteriously disappeared—only to magically reappear at my side a second later, and, better still, she was carrying her plate of food.

  “Mind if I join you? I feel kind of pathetic dining alone,” she said, in particularly good English with only the subtlest hint of a German accent.

  “Absolutely, though you could never look pathetic—least of all in that dress.”

  “Well, thank you,” she said, taking a seat and placing her napkin on her lap.

  “I must say—your English is excellent,” I said.

  “Thank you. So is yours.”

  I laughed.

  “Certainly better than my German. So, what are you drinking?” I asked, motioning for the bartender.

  “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  I ordered another martini, and, shortly thereafter, the bartender returned and placed it in front of my beautiful new dinner companion.

  “Proscht,” she said, as she held it up to toast.

  “Cheers,” I responded.

  We turned our attention to our plates and continued our conversation between bites.

  “My name’s Finn.”

  “I’m Lea.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  “Finn. Is that your first or last name?” she said, with a slight change in the tone of her voice.

  “Last. First name is Tag.”

  I thought I might have seen a little hint of recognition in her expression and wondered if perhaps our meeting wasn’t an accident. As I pondered that thought, I looked around the restaurant and noticed a subtle shift in the gazes of the menfolk. They were all staring in my general direction, or, more specifically, at Lea, who was easily the most beautiful woman in the room. The Middle Eastern crew seemed the most interested, and I noticed the head honcho was looking over at Lea with a hungry lust in his eyes as he whispered something to one of his underlings. A second later, that same underling stood up and started walking in our direction.

  “Do you like Middle Eastern men?”

  “Depends on the man. Why do you ask?”

  “There’s one on his way over.”

  The man came up to Lea and introduced himself.

  “Good evening, I am Jarib, and my—um—employer was wondering if you would like to join us for a drink.”

  Jarib, as I speculated, was clearly some kind of bodyguard. He wasn’t exactly bulky, but he was close to my height and appeared to be well-muscled and carried himself with the confidence of a man who has seen his fair share of tussles. Of course, his most intimidating feature was his tendency to stare with his cold, dark expressionless eyes. All in all, he didn’t seem like a fun guy to invite to a party.

  “Tell him I’m very flattered, but I already have a dinner companion.”

  Jarib didn’t look too happy when he heard her answer, and he gave me a long intimidating look before walking back to his boss. I could smell trouble as clearly as I could smell Jarib’s cologne, and it didn’t smell particularly good. He returned to his table and relayed the message to his boss, and the man in charge turned and glared at me with a great burning hatred that made me feel like the last lamb kabob at an all you can eat Middle Eastern buffet. He whispered something into Jarib’s ear and our favorite bodyguard nodded then walked back over.

  “My employer Mr. Ahmad insists that you join us and is willing to double your fee if need be. Now, if you would please come with me.”

  Jarib took hold of her wrist, prompting me to put down my glass and stand up, so I would be more than ready for action should our unwelcome guest need a little encouragement to go fuck off.

  “Excuse me, but I’m not a prostitute,” Lea said, indignantly, as she shook off his hand.

  “And you, Jarib, are clearly an asshole,” I interjected.

  He turned his menacing gaze to me.

  “You would be wise to stay out of this,” he said.

  “And you would be wise to wear less cologne.”

  He stared at me, the vein above his left eye throbbing prominently while he attempted to regain his composure. After a moment, he turned his attention back to Lea.

  “Miss, I can assure you that it will be in your best interest to accept my offer,” he said, once again taking hold of her wrist as he attempted to pull her from her stool.

  The ignorant Jarib and Mr. Ahmad were apparently dead set on the idea that Lea was a prostitute. Just because a woman is beautiful and alone doesn’t mean she’s a working girl—at least not outside Vegas. Unfortunately, this continuing confusion was starting to annoy me, and that wasn’t exactly a good way to avoid an international incident. Being of Irish descent meant you inherited a few key character traits: a gift for the gab, a love of the booze, a great sense of humor, and, last but not least, a great and powerful rage not unlike the incredible Hulk. At the moment, I was only a step away from turning green and tearing out of my clothing. It was something I had spent most of my life learning to control, but with rage came adrenaline, and that was a powerful ally. Of course, you had to be able to draw on it when you needed it, and not when someone cut you off in traffic.

  I managed to keep my anger mostly in check as I reached over to get hold of Jarib, but Lea was faster and trapped his hand to her wrist before circling up and over and twisting it back into his center, the resulting pain driving him down onto his knees. He hit the ground hard, his expression furious as he looked up at the woman who had just bested him for all to see.

  “You fucking bitch! I’ll kill you for that!” he snarled, through gritted teeth.

  She applied a little more pressure, and now he had a tough choice to make. Either he did the twist or he lost the wrist. He did the twist, and his insults came to an abrupt end when he lurched over and had his face planted on the floor. I could tell that Lea wasn’t a recreational martial artist, but rather a stone cold practitioner, and watching her work was sending clear signals to my happy place that it was about time for my balls to prep the rocket for liftoff. That is, until I noticed the other four bodyguards stand up and start walking in our direction. Two’s company, three’s a crowd, and five was most definitely going to be a genuine pain in the ass.

  I did a quick inventory of the group and saw that they all looked fit and ready for action, but the lead guy was going to be the biggest problem, mainly because he was actually bigger than his peers. He was easily my height, but, unlike Jarib, was broad and muscular, his beard growing down to a neck that was as wide as his head. As he walked over, he slipped a folding knife from his pocket, slid out the blade, then hid it from view by moving it discreetly behind his back. Lovely. The first rule of a knife fight was usually to have a knife. My first rule was usually to have a gun, but I had, unfortunately, left mine back in the room having expected to enjoy a wonderful trouble-free night in the hotel bar. Expect the unexpected had been one of my rules back in the day, though sadly I had forgotten that little gem. It was, therefore, time to play a little catch-up, but, honestly, what was life without at least a few challenges?

  “Do you mind releasing Jarib?” the lead man asked, as he and his three fellow bodyguards arrived.

  “Not at all—as long as you don’t mind taking him back to your table,” Lea answered.

  “Fine,” he said.

  Lea released Jarib, and he stood and joined his bearded counterparts.

  “Happy now?” she asked.

  “Yes, and, now, you will be coming with us.”

  “Sorry, but that’s definitely not going to happen,” she responded.

  The man leaned in close, his eyes filled with menace as he spoke.

  “I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter, as you have very publicly violated Jarib’s honor as a man.”

  “Because he violated my honor as a woman.”

  “Which is meaningless, and now you must atone for your inexcusable behavior.”


  “In case you haven’t noticed—this isn’t the Middle East, and women here aren’t treated worse than farm animals, stoned to death, or dragged off to be molested by a bunch of cologne-soaked ignorant goat fuckers.”

  He stared at me, his eyes filling with burning rage as he digested my words.

  “I have slit men open from their throats to their balls for lesser insults,” he said, with a sneer—his pupils dilated from his growing anger.

  “Hey, it’s not an insult unless you’re Middle Eastern and stone, molest, and treat women worse than farm animals—oh, and smell like a cologne-soaked ignorant goat fucker.”

  I took a moment to lean forward and sniff the air.

  “Oh, shit. Sorry, I guess that is you,” I said.

  “First, we will deal with you—then we will deal with the whore.”

  “I know it’s hard to see with yours eyes watering from all that cologne, but she’s not a whore, and, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re in a crowded restaurant in Switzerland.”

  “Yes, which is why you will be coming along with us to somewhere more private,” he said, as he grabbed my shirt with his left hand, pulled me closer, then brought up his other hand so that he could brandish the knife in front of my face.

  The other four men closed in, creating a kind of curtain of menace to hide the actions of their spokesman, who smiled sadistically as he proceeded to press the blade against my throat. It was particularly annoying, but it was nowhere near as annoying as his cologne—which inspired me to nickname him Stinky. Stinky spoke something in Arabic to his friends, and it was obvious they were about to try and drag us out of the restaurant. There was no way in hell that was going to happen, but first I had to deal with the knife. One of the key factors in approaching an armed opponent was to understand that the weapon made the person wielding it feel powerful, and if you defeated the weapon, you defeated the person—in theory, anyway. But, in order to take the knife out of the equation, my first step would be to employ a little psychological warfare, and, to that end, I immediately smiled and decided to engage in conversation, the goal being to put Stinky off guard.

  “Look, Stinky, I think we got off on the wrong foot. You see, I’m just a simple toilet paper salesman, and my lady friend Lea here is in the Laxative business, and we were hoping to come together tonight—if you get my meaning. Well, that is, until you and your fragrant friends rudely interrupted our shit—so to speak. So, why don’t we all act like adults, call it even, and part ways peacefully before someone gets hurt.”

  “I think you mean before you get hurt.”

  “Actually, I was mainly referring to you and your bearded friends.”

  He laughed then smiled cruelly.

  “What is that saying you Americans have? Oh, yes, I remember—I believe your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash. Well now, it’s time to pay up, toilet paper salesman. Now, come along, as we wouldn’t want to spoil any of these people’s dinner with the sight of your blood.”

  “So, you’re a gentleman and an asshole.”

  At that moment, Stinky’s fellow goat fuckers decided to encircle us, with three guys on me, and two on Lea. It seemed a little sexist to assume I was the bigger threat, but what else would you expect from a bunch of third world misogynist assholes. The other diners around us looked on curiously, none daring to intercede, which was the typical response other than filming it with their phones. Thankfully, none of this was being visually documented, but Corn’s words about the Swiss authorities wanting to keep things nice and quiet made me realize it was about time to end this little altercation before anything too public or horrible happened. Lea and I exchanged a nod that was a silent call to action, and I wasn’t entirely certain, but I think I saw the hint of a smile on her face. Clearly, she was all that was woman.

  “I shall enjoy cutting that tongue out of your smart mouth,” Stinky said.

  “And I shall enjoy wiping that shitty smile off your face. Get it? I said wipe! It’s a toilet paper reference,” I said, my pun falling on deaf ears.

  He didn’t get it, but he thought about it, which was all I really needed to fill his mind and create an opening for action. I used it to reach up, grab his right hand, and twist it counterclockwise until the pressure on his wrist buckled him over and allowed me to take the knife. Goal one was complete, though it inspired the other two goat fuckers to join the fight. The one behind me slipped his arm around my throat, but, fortunately, he didn’t realize I had the knife until I used it to stab his forearm and force him to let go of my neck. At that moment, his friend moved in to grab hold of me, so I swung the butt end of the knife in an arc and hit him in the temple. He was dazed, and I hooked the knife around behind his neck and used it as a lever to pull him down into a knee strike before throwing him onto the ground.

  I had a brief reprieve from the action and looked over to see that Jarib had managed to get Lea into a headlock while his cohort was trying to move in and get hold of her arms. She had her own plans, however, and when the guy in front was close enough, she lifted both legs and kicked out at him, the move knocking him several feet away. It also sent her and Jarib to the ground, where she was temporarily free. Unfortunately, the other guy managed to rush forward and grab her feet, obviously hoping to drag her out of the restaurant. At that point, she again showed her martial arts prowess when she proceeded to pull her butt to her ankles, thereby allowing her to grab guy number two’s feet, and trip him up, sending him onto his back. The motion of his fall dragged her forward and up onto her feet, and allowed her to deliver a knee to guy number two’s groin. The impact made his head pop up, and she swung her elbow into his face and put him back down on the ground, where he roiled in pain as he clutched at what appeared to be a broken nose. She immediately stood up and backed away, but Jarib was also back on his feet, and heading in her direction. I cut him off, however, by firing a front thrust kick to his side that sent him flying onto the table of the guy in the yellow pants. His date screamed as their two full glasses of red wine splashed all over his yellow pants and her fancy white evening dress. At that point, Frenchy stood up and was soon joined by the two large middle-aged men who had been sitting at the next table. Apparently, all it took was a little Pinot Noir for people to finally get the fuck out of their seats.

  The fight wasn’t over, however, for Stinky and my other two bearded assholes had recovered and were back on their feet and ready for more. Worse still, Jarib’s partner was back on his feet and making a mad dash at Lea.

  “Lea, look out!” I yelled.

  Just as he closed in and reached for her throat, she abruptly twisted around and slammed her elbow into his solar plexus. He was knocked back a step, and she proceeded to hike up her dress and throw a glorious side kick, the move putting her right buttock and muscular thigh on display as her foot impacted his chest and sent him crashing onto the table of a group of drunk twenty-somethings. The young men all stood up, looking angry and ready to join in the melee. This inspired Mr. Ahmad, who had started this entire mess with his chauvinistic philandering, to come deescalate the situation by rounding up his men. Once he had them all in check, his final act was to walk over and get in my face.

  “This isn’t over,” he said, with a menacing sneer.

  “I wouldn’t want it to be.”

  “You will—trust me on that,” he said.

  He turned and started herding his men through the growing chaos, and I could suddenly hear the distant sound of approaching sirens. Obviously, someone, probably the bartender or one of the waitstaff, must have called the police, and it was, therefore, a good time to get the hell out of Dodge. I signed my dinner bill then turned my attention to Lea, who was looking a bit stressed.

  “Are you staying in the hotel?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Perfect. Let’s take this party to your room, as it’s probably better that we avoid the police.”

  A beautiful woman didn’t need much of a reason to get invited up to my room,
so I decided to trust her judgment.

  “No problem. Follow me,” I said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  When Nations Come Together

  WITH LEA’S HAND in mine, we left the bar and entered the main lobby, only to hear the blare of the police sirens growing louder by the second. It was strange, but deep in my subconscious, I harbored a fondness for the two-note sound of European police cars because they reminded me of old Pink Panther movies. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be a bumbling Inspector Clouseau arriving, so we needed to get up to the relative safety of my room. We stepped into the elevator, and, when the doors closed, the wailing sirens were cut off and replaced by polka music—or, was it elevator music? Or maybe polka music was elevator music. Either way, I preferred the sound of the siren. I hit the button for my floor, and we stood there quietly until the doors opened, and we exited and walked down the hall to my suite. The same agent was still on duty, and she gave me a scrutinizing glare as she stepped into my path and held out her hand to signal me to stop.

  “Hold up there, Mr. Finn. I’m going to need to know who your friend is,” she said.

  “It’s OK, this beautiful vixen is one of the good guys, though I’m secretly hoping she’s a bad girl—if you catch my drift.”

  The agent rolled her eyes, obviously unimpressed by my mediocre attempt at levity. Lea, however, thought it was funny and smiled as she regarded me.

  “I didn’t know toilet paper salesmen needed to travel with their own personal security,” she said.

  “It’s a dirty business.”

  “Apparently.”

  “So, are you going to let us pass?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but she’s officially your responsibility if anything happens,” she said, as she frowned and stepped aside.

  I slid in my key card and hoped that my roommates had already retired to their rooms for the evening, as I kind of felt like a teenager sneaking a girl into his parent’s house on a school night. I was, therefore, very thankful when I saw that all was quiet. Lea sat by the fireplace, and I made us a couple of martinis then joined her a minute later.