A Scripta

Officer Juan Aguilar stared out boringly at the parking lot.  This, he thought sourly, is what graduating fifteenth in your Academy class gets you.  At least he was in the PPD, his wife expecting their first child, and they had a really nice apartment in Skyway.  In three months he would be taking his Lieutenant's exam.

Someone knocked on the window of his little shack.  He turned to see a guy in a blue suit who looked like he came from the office next door.  "Hey, officer, I locked myself out of my car."

"Call Triple-A," Aguilar said, his usual pat answer to that statement.

"I don't have a phone."

He looked over at the man.  He looked like he should have a phone, dressed as he did.  Maybe he forgot it in the office.  Aguilar pulled himself up off the chair, and stepped outside of his shack.  The man started walking toward the rear of the lot.  Aguilar followed casually.  Then, suddenly, someone grabbed him from behind and put something over his mouth and nose.  He breathed in a sharp, pungent smell, and struggled against whoever held him.  They held him tight, though, and the smell overpowered him.  He felt himself falling...


It was cold.  He woke up, feeling lightheaded and sick to his stomach.  He couldn't get the smell out of his nose. 

He tried to sit up, but found he was being held down.  He turned his head, and saw that he was looking at a set of bars.  He came to his senses - he was dressed in what felt like sweats, on something that was like a slab.  He looked up to see an IV drip in his arm.  He heard some movement, and looked toward the bars.

"Damn, Billy, you're good with that shit."

"Told you he'd be up right about now."

Two men in plain t-shirts and jeans stood at the bars.  "What's going on?" he asked.

"You're going to be part of a performance," one of the men said.  "Just you rest.  If you promise to be good, maybe we'll feed you."

"But what.."

"Don't worry about it, man.  You'll never know what hit you."