I stood, transfixed. The cold, huge barrel of an AK47 assault rifle rested comfortably against my forehead. I stared at the barrel, then the wooden stock, a black hand, and finally on the face of the person wielding it. I didn't know him. Just another dirty black South African. "You...You come." he said, backing up slowly. My hands were trembling. He nodded his head to the right, toward an alleyway. I whimpered pathetically as I walked.
"I...I am Khalfani's..." I whimpered.
"Not for much longer. Not for much longer at all." he replied, and jammed the barrel into my back to make me move faster. I was a reporter. I wasn't prepared to deal with this shit! I cursed my producer and editor that sent me on this bullshit assignment in this bullshit slum.
Finally, we came to a open door to a ruined hut. Sheet metal walls. Cardboard floor. In the back stood the guard Jabar. The guard with the burnt face. My heart sank. I knew then, that I was going to die here.
"Bitch, you are breathing heavy. You don't look at me. You are NOT KGB!" he said, stepping forward. My hands were at my sides. I let him take my face in his hand and squeeze. "What are you!" he demanded. I felt my pale body go limp under his grasp. I knew I had to try anything, anything at all, or else I'd be dead in under a minute. My hand snaked over his ribs slowly, seductively.
"I am KGB..." I said in my thickest, most desperate Russian accent; "but I just want to go home!" I said, letting myself go limp. I sobbed, and shivered, hoping he would take the bait. I felt his warm breath on my heaving chest, and I knew.
"Okay. KGB. You leave a mark on me, I leave a mark on you. I don't know how you know I was with Machete Mog..." (A lucky guess by Kalfani, I think? Maybe, maybe not...) but one mark... he said, hauling my skirt up to expose my pantiless sex; "deserves another." |