poniedziałek, 5 lipca 2010

Dream. Fever. Crime novel scene.

"I've come to ask you a favour," he said. "No one knows I'm here. By this evening I'll be back across the border, my passport unstamped thanks to your new borderless Europe; the peasants back at the village will not have noticed I'd been gone. My mobile phone is off,  no one can track me.  If you look out the window,  you'll notice my partner pacing down  the street outside, he's the nondescript fellow in a black jacket. Yes, that's him. He stays behind.  If you were to call the police now, and have me arrested, he'll complete the assignment, and disappear. You don't know him, but he knows you.  Now here's the favour that we'd like you  to do for us.  Only you can do this repair job, which won't cost you anything.  Here's the phone."

As I stood by, an invisible witness, a fly on the wall,  I watched this once confident businessman's facial expression slowly change as he considered the offer.  I felt hot, sweaty, I turned, and fell  back to sleep.

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