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Riva's gray eyes reach out and grab anyone careless enough to look directly at her. Her flawless skin glows in contrast to her long black hair.
She knows the effect she has on men and is not afraid to use it... most days. Not today. Her hair is a tangled mess. Eyes bloodshot. Skin a sickly pallor from whatever ailment has befallen her as she holes up in this 4-star high-rise hotel on LA's west side. She hates waiting on anyone or anything but now awaits the arrival of Serge, her boss and mentor. The fact that she might be coming down with something makes the waiting that much worse.
She is doing her evening yoga, in the downward-facing dog position, when she gets the feeling she is not alone. Someone is in the room with her.
She ends the session with namasté, picks up the small-caliber pistol always within reach, and digs into her purse for a device given to her at training. The thing detects electronic bugs and heat signatures, all in one. She is not typically impressed with gadgets but has to admit this thing is pretty cool.
"There you are," she coos when she finds what might be mistaken for a cell phone. Clipping it to her waistband to leave her left hand free while the other hand holds the gun, she flips the device on and starts to inspect the hotel suite.
Finding nothing behind the couch, she moves to the kitchenette, opening every cabinet. Nothing. She edges down the narrow hallway past the front door. The device says there's nothing there, either.
This thing thinks I am crazy, she thinks with a smile.
She peeks out the front door peephole. If there is anyone out there, they are not generating any body heat. No one in the bathroom, shower or cabinets, either.
Maybe this place is haunted, she wonders.
Entering the bedroom, the device vibrates furiously as a deep-voiced chortle emanates from the back of the room. She flips on the ceiling light and, there on her bed sits Serge, with his hands tucked behind his head, propped against the headboard.
He is wearing his signature black thick-rimmed eyeglasses, a smile, and absolutely nothing else. His chortle turns to roaring laughter now that he's been discovered.
"Oh, dear God," she gasps at his naked corpulence. "Put some clothes on! Nobody wants to see that."
"You look like hell," he manages between laughs, running a hand through his longish greasy brown hair.
Riva is fluent in several languages and now uses one of her all-time favorite phrases, "Bite me."
With or without clothes, with his bulging, narrow-set eyes, bulldog jowls and just a hint of a chin that accentuates his oversized nose, Serge is not what anyone in any culture would consider attractive.
He knows this and counters it with a jovial air. People are inclined to trust a happy person, and this often gains their confidence. Otherwise, he does not care what anyone thinks.
"You couldn't text first?" she complains.
"I have to keep you on your toes," he speaks with an accent vaguely foreign to anyone listening, no matter the listener's native tongue. Born Sergiusz Kolza, he anglicized it to Serge Coleman upon illegally migrating as a teenager from Bulgaria to England.
"Are you sick?" he asks while sliding off the bed to pull his pants on.
"Yes, and I hope it's contagious. Here, give me a kiss." When his eyes light up and he pulls his pants back down, she vomits onto the bed sheet, just missing him. "I was joking, you old perv!"
"Seriously, Riva," he laughs after a moment of disgust at the vomit, "you are sloppy. Do not let people surprise you like this. It will get you killed."
"It will get you killed!" She is in no mood for his cheerful insults. "Stop sneaking up on me. And stop with the never-ending lessons and 'helpful' hints! I am twenty-six years old and fully trained. That is why I am here!"
"My apologies," he says, coming toward her. "But no one is ever fully trained. Did I not see you looking out the peephole just now? We trained you better than that!"
She gives him a dirty look. "Forever correcting me!" she is still shouting. "Criticizing, finding fault, nitpicking! It is maddening!" He has struck a nerve again, and she hates that he gets under her skin so easily.
Laughing and shrugging his shoulders, he says, "That is my role, mon fleur. What would you have me do?"
"I never hear a 'Well done' or 'Nice job,'" she says, now holding her pounding head. "'Nice ass' doesn't count."
And with that, she adjourns to the living room. She considers dropping the handgun onto the end table, but decides against it. She and Serge are not friends. It is best to be armed at all times in his presence. The bug detector, she does set down.
Their relationship has followed an evolution of prisoner-emancipator, then student-teacher, and now agent-handler. It was during their "prisoner-emancipator" phase – when he took great pains to be kind and considerate while grooming her – that they became lovers. It was during their "student-teacher" phase that he raped her... twice. He claimed innocence at the time, "You cannot rape someone you are already sleeping with!"
He failed to understand that sex was, is, and always will be okay only when between two consenting adults. She hated him ever since the rape, not only for the brutality but the sheer stupidity in not understanding that it was rape. She is stuck with him for now, unfortunately, but it helps knowing she will get even someday. She just hasn't quite decided how yet.
If she is never given the chance to kill him herself, she takes comfort in assuming he will meet his end – violently – at the hands of one of his many sexual conquests, gambling victims, or countless other enemies.
Noticing the over-sized towel she had left draped over the back of the couch, she now wraps it around her shoulders like a shawl. Moving to the window, she studies the shadowy figures on the street below, absorbing their shapes and movements.
From his position behind her, Serge smiles lasciviously while focusing on her perfect, heart-shaped ass.
Catching this in the window's reflection, Riva rolls her eyes. She turns and says, "I am amazed – as old and horny as you are – you have never been caught in a 'honey trap.' So many men simply cannot control their zippers!"
And she returns her gaze to something, anything somewhere outside.
Moving in from behind as she stares out the window, Serge raises his arms as if about to massage her shoulders... or strangle her.
"Es-tu prêt?" he asks.
"Je ne parle pas Français," she says, turning back around. French is not one of her languages. Unsmiling, focused on his hands, she asks, "Why are we speaking French? 'Mon fleur' and now 'es-tu' something?"
"Are you ready?" he translates his own question while ignoring hers and carefully placing his hands upon her shoulders.
Her eyes flash at his touch, but she maintains control. Exhaling, she says, "Yes, I am ready."
"Say it like you mean it!" he grabs her firmly.
Despite her nasal congestion, she can smell the onion garlic bread on his breath. She cringes and turns away, deliberately showing as much contempt as her pounding head will allow. He despises the slightest perceived disrespect from women, especially younger women, and she knows it. Worst of all, he simply cannot tolerate disrespect from those who work for him. Numerous women – and men – showing such disrespect have wound up dead.
She also knows that Serge can't kill her. He has spent too much time and effort and, other than those times he forced himself upon her, she has not yet served her purpose.
He is still up in her face, holding her arms, when she decides against antagonizing him any further. She decides to play along, humor him. And so, smiling and shouting like a new recruit, she shouts, "I am ready, moy kapetan!"
"Much better," he oozes. His hands slide down her arms to her hips, pausing a moment before firmly grabbing her buttocks. Looking deep into her eyes, he awaits her reaction.
Other than a sudden, cold stillness, she has none. Even her pulse is now barely perceptible as she considers her next move.
For Riva, this is déjà vu of the final moments of her adoptive father's life. Her second adoptive father. The one she killed. They had been in this exact position. She had been giggling happily about something one moment – being a silly little girl, trying to enjoy what little childhood life had allowed her – only to turn cold and quiet when he had grabbed her with that familiar, disgusting look in his eyes. And now, as then – and for similar reasons – she is seriously considering killing the man standing in front of her.
The only thing stopping her is the knowledge that Serge's people would hunt her down and kill her. It is not the fear of death that is stopping her now so much as it is her unwillingness to allow Serge or his people the pleasure of killing her.
Perversely aroused by Riva's stillness, unaware of the murderous thoughts running through her head, Serge hisses like a snake, "Yessss! Very nice!" He slides in behind her, pressing himself against her as he moves. "Tell me again what your assignment is."
Riva drones robotically, "I must find someone... and..."
Something inside her then snaps. At the depths of cold-blooded murderous thoughts one moment, the next moment finds her giggling then bursting out laughing, unable to control herself. She is laughing hysterically now.
Serge does not know what to make of it. All he can do is step back, adjust his crotch, and wait for her to get over it. For a moment, he worries she might be having a mental breakdown.
His concern turns to sexual arousal when he realizes he is responsible for this emotional outburst. He is the one causing distress so extreme it has sent her round the bend. For Serge, very few things are more satisfying than that.
Riva tries to regain control. She tries to recite her lines, but she finds it difficult. Get a hold of yourself, she scolds herself.
She eventually does manage to marshal her emotions and reduce her laughter to a stifled giggle. She then picks up where she left off. "I must find someone and... make him my bitch!"
"Not your 'bitch,'" Serge corrects her with an uneasy laugh, still not sure what got into her. "Your asset. Your pawn. We are chess players, you and I. We must be cold. Calculating. Like you did when I put my hands on your ass. That was very good! Judging by your reaction, it was good for you, too!" He tries to be funny. "You see there? I can give compliments. But this... laughing fit of yours... this was bad. Very bad."
Again, she rolls her eyes.
He adds, "We must be in control at all times."
"Are you finished?" she asks, then turns and points her ass at him. "I shall make him my asset."
"Good," he gives an awkward chuckle. "But tell me again why we are ruining this stupid git's life?"
She recites from memory one of the many lines drilled into her during training, usually by Serge himself: "Sacrifice of the one, for the good of the many!"
"Yes!"
"Anyone in particular you want sacrificed?" she asks.
"To keep it interesting for you, I have procured someone entirely clean – no criminal past whatever – and have prepared him specially for you, my dear Riva."
"What do you mean 'prepared?' "
Not answering the question, he says, "I have recently returned from Palm Springs. Lovely this time of year! Warm, but not too hot. A few trees, but not too many. I do not like a lot of trees."
Riva gives him a look. "Who does not like trees?"
"I like trees, just not too many! But, I met a beautiful young man there. A male model named Christian, ironically."
"How is that ironic?" she asks, but there is no answer. "So, a young man, you say? Don't ask, don't tell?" When he stares at her as if considering snapping her neck, she changes the subject. "This 'beautiful young man' is my target?"
"No! God, no! It is his best friend that I have chosen for you."
"Why him?"
"He insulted me."
"That's it? He insulted you, so now we ruin his life?"
"And why not?" he laughs.
Riva shrugs, reminding herself it should not matter to her, either way. That was the deal: Serge gets her out of prison, she does whatever he asks.
"And now," he continues, "we... or, rather, you turn him into your own little patsy. But remember, we will be expecting results. Failure is not an option."
Have you ever felt like someone was out to get you? I'm not talking paranoia. I'm talking about a real live person deliberately trying to ruin your life. Neither had I... until now.
Hello. Alex Pannas here. Sorry we're not meeting under better circumstances. I could be philosophical about it all, but don't see the point. Yes, I'm bitter, but I'll get through this! They say attitude is everything. We don't have problems, we're given opportunities!
I'm usually pretty good at keeping it light, keeping it positive. Not today. I was fired this afternoon. But wait, there's more!
Coming home early, I caught my girlfriend Cheryl and now-former best friend Christian cheating on me... and filming it... in my bed. Turns out, they've been doing this for a while. Yeah.
I almost missed my doctor's appointment because of it. Actually, I wish I had missed that appointment. Then, I never would have known about this incurable new disease I seem to have.
How is it even possible for so many things to go wrong in one day? I thought it was just a series of unfortunate events. I mean, a healthy person doesn't go around assuming there's a conspiracy against him, right?
Turns out, in my case, there is. If I seem flippant, that's just how I cope. You either laugh or you cry. You start referring to yourself in the second person, too.
Anyway, to answer the obvious question: No, I don't know which disease I am the not-so-proud owner of now. Whatever it is, there aren't any symptoms. If I had stopped to think about that, I would have asked "How do you know anything is wrong, if there are no symptoms?" But I didn't do that. I'm a trusting person. I just took my doctor's word for it.
I do know it's not sexually-transmitted. I asked that much. But when the doctor tried to tell me the rest, I freaked out and bolted out the door before he could finish. I didn't want to hear it. Could not take any more bad news at that point, though I did slow down on my way out, enough to grab the prescription in the doctor's hand. He probably said something, but I wasn't listening.
Sorry if I'm depressing you. Things can only improve from here, right? I'll call the doctor back when I'm ready.
I'm at the pharmacy now, trying to get that prescription filled. It's just before noon, and I haven't made it to the unemployment office yet... if I ever do.
The pharmacist appears to be a transvestite. I try to be cool. I now know something about being an outsider. Nothing like what s/he must feel, but I can commiserate.
Yesterday, I would have considered her a freak and had no sympathy. Today, I almost feel like we're in the same boat. Almost.
See that? I'm already growing as a person, and not even halfway through the day! It's amazing what a change of circumstances can do to one's perspective.
The pharmacist is shaking her head, having trouble reading the doctor's scribbled prescription. "What is this?" she says. "I can't read it."
I had crumpled the paper into a little ball, unconsciously. I give the universal "no idea" gesture: elbows bent, palms up and out. I wonder how anyone ever gets the right prescription. I can never read them even when I know what it says.
"I don't know, dude..." I begin, immediately regretting my choice of words.
"What do you mean, 'dude'?"
"Oh... no, no," I try to recover. "I'm sorry. I call everyone 'dude!' Friends, girlfriends, male, female. I mean my girlfriends are always female, but... not that there's anything wrong... I've been calling everyone 'dude' my entire life."
I don't think she believes me, but she has also stopped caring and returned her attention to the prescription. "What is the prescription for?" she sighs deeply. "What is it supposed to do?"
I shrug. "I was hoping you could tell me. The doctor just handed it to me. He never said what it was." I realize that last part is probably a lie, but that's my story.
Again, shaking her head, then nodding, she says, "Wait here while I find out."
But I don't wait there. That's not my style. I begin perusing the aisles. Before I know it, I'm talking to this 40-something gentleman, a complete stranger. He is about my height and build. Same skin color: not quite lily white, not quite tan. Nicely dressed. Professional.
"Nice suit," I say.
He tilts his head back, flares his nostrils, narrows his eyes, but says nothing. Not the talkative type.
"Am I in the middle of a bad dream or something?" I persist.
"Probably," he says, looking me up and down before walking away.
Smart-ass.
I follow him, talking to his backside now. "I mean, life could not possibly get this screwed up, this fast. Could it?"
I don't normally harass complete strangers, let alone pour my heart out to them. Yes, he is a smart-ass, but so am I, so I usually just let that slide. I'm probably still in shock. Not responsible for my actions, and all that.
Earlier, at work, I had been sprayed in the eyes by a wall-mounted air freshener I never noticed before. Yeah. Strangest thing. I'm starting to think there were mind-altering chemicals in it to make me act like this. Knowing my former employer – one of those "shop from home" TV channels – it would not surprise me one bit.
Paranoid? Probably.
I start rubbing my eyes. The 40-something gentleman takes the opportunity to escape, but I find him again in the refrigerated aisle. Smiling at him now, just to be annoying, I yank a root beer out of the display case and take a swig.
"Yesterday, I would have grabbed a real beer," I explain. "But, I quit drinking today." Laughing, I add, "I sound like that guy in Airplane! Remember? 'I picked a bad day to quit drinking! I picked a bad day to quit sniffing glue!"
I laugh again.
"Good for you," the man replies, annoyed.
I'm just trying to have some fun, looking for an excuse to laugh, but this guy is no fun at all.
A much younger man – I'm guessing store clerk, based on the uniform and over-all perkiness – comes around the corner. For a second, I think I'll have better luck with him. Younger people are not so jaded and bitter.
I'm wrong. He sees me drinking the soda and barks out, "Hey, you gonna pay for that?!"
"Yes, I am," I say, offended. "Do I look like a shoplifter?"
"Kinda. Yeah."
I take another gulp while looking directly at the young clerk, daring him to stop me. He does nothing, so I go in search of "40-something guy."
Spotting him, I sneak up and lean on the display case right behind him. Mere inches away, I continue my sob story. "I'm still trying to process it all."
The guy lurches forward, startled, crying out, "Do you mind?!" Apparently, being mere inches from a stranger's ear is too close? I know I'm a jerk, but he started it.
A man's voice is now booming through the overhead speakers. "Mr. Pannas? Alex Pannas!"
In a flash of inspiration – psychotic break, temporary dissociative identity disorder, whatever you want to call it – I say to my 40-something acquaintance, "I should change my name. From now on, call me Alex... no... Axel. Yeah, Axel McLean. I like the sound of that. How about Axel Winchester McLean? Ooh, good one."
"You sound like a car wash for heavy machinery," my new friend quips.
I'm looking up at the ceiling now, trying to find a good comeback, when he disappears. Like a shapeshifter.
Switching back to her feminine voice as I approach the counter, the pharmacist says, "Your prescription is ready, Mr. Pannas."
"Please, call me McLean. Axel McLean."
Luckily, she doesn't care that I'm using one name to have my prescription filled, and an entirely different one to pick it up. "Whatever," she snaps. "That'll be $87.44."
"How much?!"
"Eighty-seven dollars and forty-four cents," she takes care to enunciate.
"Damn!"
Smiling, she explains, "Yes, your health insurance has expired. It would have been thirteen dollars. But without insurance, it's eighty..."
"... seven forty-four," I finish for her. "Okay."
The young store clerk from earlier skulks up from behind and asks, "Did you include the root beer?"
"Oops," she amends the total. "That'll be $88.91."
On my way out, I spot my 40-something shopper friend checking out at the other register. I wave goodbye. He flips me off. I nod and smile. It's good to make friends, meet new people.
With my can of root beer and expensive new mystery prescription in hand, I leave the pharmacy.
Hey, just trying to make a living.
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