Got bored and started writing this. Wasn’t going to post it because it’s not very developed, but then figured, meh why not? It’s about a girl and is probably gonna end up having something to do with the end of the world or something like that. Trying not to make it centered on her burping, but most of the female characters do naturally burp a lot. There’s a lot more of the girl’s part than the guy and I’ll post it once I get the usb back.
The water level was rising far faster than Mark had expected—he found it quite humorous. At its current rate his cell would be submerged in a little over a minute. Impending death notwithstanding, he couldn’t help but laugh at the entire ordeal. He really didn’t think the Warden would have the balls to do it. Sure he’d threaten it every day. Each hour the intercom would broadcast his monotone rants and assertions of dominance. The empty words of a cowardly youth clinging to the feeble identity he created for himself. More threat could be found in a limbless kick boxer. But as the prisoners in the surrounding cells beat hopelessly on the glass walls Mark felt pride in knowing their little Warden had finally made his first adult decision. Good job, we’ll go somewhere special for dinner tonight.
But, getting back to the task at hand—how was he going to get out of this cell? The water was nearly to his neck and from the looks of it the other prisoners weren’t having much luck escaping. The glass was heavily reinforced and shatterproof. No way he could break it. The row officers stood and watched with their arms crossed across their chests or resting on their hips. A few were snickering. One in particular, Randy Beeks, had not stopped staring at him since the Warden gave the order. He was a rather chubby fellow with a small round face. He had one of those thin twirly moustaches that you don’t think is real and you want to pull on it to be sure, but every time you’re about to do it the guy next to you nudges you like he knows what you’re thinking. Mark decided his one regret in life was that he never got to pull that moustache. No, that’s not true. There were plenty of other things--but there was an idea. One that would work quite nicely.
It just so happened that Beeks suffered from a dreadful inferiority complex. It really was quite terrible. The man would spend the wee hours before his shift pressing and polishing his uniform because he couldn’t allow the common dreck to outshine him. He spoke louder and slower than everyone around him to make sure his words were always taken into account and often boasted about exploits with women who everyone knew wanted nothing to do with him. The man was also very easily drawn into conflict; a trait which had amused Mark, but now would prove to be the key to his survival—at least for a little while longer.
Now completely submerged, his lungs could only sustain him for six minutes before he would need air—he wouldn’t need that long. Calmly and without a sense of urgency Mark made his way to the glass wall separating himself from the line of sneering guards.
Beeks’ beady eyes focused on him intensely. He truly disliked Mark. He was too smug and sure of himself. Worst of all he didn’t show the officers the respect they deserved. Even now, only moments from death, he is defiant. How can he just stand there smiling and waving at us like he’s out on his porch? Doesn’t he realize he’s going to die? What is his problem? Drowning is too good a death for him. Beeks reaches for his keys. I’ll teach him some respect and make him apologize for all he’s done just before I kill him. He enters the key into a hole next to the glass wall and a holographic keypad materializes before him. Hastily he punches in a combination and jumps out of the way as the wall of Mark’s cell flies open Water gushes out onto the row and Mark falls on hands and knees gasping for air—Beeks thought it was fitting.
“Well that was mighty nice of you,” Mark coughs.
Beeks raises his club to beat him, but before the blow lands he disintegrates into thin air. The guards, dead prisoners and cells, walls, even the ground begin to dematerialize around Mark until he is left alone floating in a dark abyss. This too begins to disappear, replaced by blinding light.
Mark awakens to find himself strapped in a cold leather chair. Three thick wires protrude from each arm and run neatly into a large console to his right. To either side of him are more chairs, a body clad in unmarked military fatigues bound in each. In the dim lighting shadows are cast on the bare walls. A blackened mirror takes up the majority of the wall before him. The wires in his arms retract into the console as the dreamer in the chair next to him begins to stir. A deep voice over an intercom booms:
“Candidate three you are to report to room 1530, get your C-Ration, and then report to room 1632 by 0445.”
The voice is familiar to him, but he can’t place it. His body is compelled to obey the order and he finds himself awkwardly climbing out of the chair, his head groggy and legs uncooperative. He stumbles through a door at the far end of the room and travels down a bare hallway. Selection, Mark’s memory slowly kicks in. Phase 1, Q Course, Special Forces. Selection, I’m at Selection.
Meanwhile, at a diner some hundred miles away Katrina Yulavette was busy selecting a new job. Diner’s Delight where she waitressed part time recently changed ownership. The new owner, a portly, middle aged-woman from the mid-west had nearly turned the place into a brothel—to put it nicely. Gone were the days of smiling families, good conversation, and even better tips. In their place were sleazy smiles, back room hook-ups, and incessant groping. Most of the waiting staff had left within a few weeks of the change, but Katrina stayed--for what reason she did not know.
This would be her last night working here, she decided as she searched through the classifieds. She had enough of the gawking eyes and outfits that were tastelessly too tight and low cut. Most of all she couldn’t stand having to pretend she enjoyed it. She hated having to flirt with every single table she got. The men who frequent were far from desirable. Sloppy, self-important womanizers, she felt as though she needed a shower after every table. The worst of all was Greg; one of her regulars. He was a lanky man in his late fifties with bad breath and ill fitting skin. His fingernails were as yellow and cracked as his lips, his black hair thinned in odd patches. Worst still was the man’s personality. He was crabby and grabby; a worse combination she had yet to see. He forced himself on the waitresses who were all expected to giggle and bend over and every possible opportunity. And to Katrina’s great joy he now stood at the host’s stand.
“You’re up,” Ben, the host, called to her.
Sighing, she folded up her newspaper, sipped her soda, and finally managed to burp out the large belch that had been brewing in her for the past few minutes—a nice relaxing rumbler.
“He, he you’re lucky you got those hooters on ya,” Greg rasped. “What are ya, a double D?” His eyes focused on the required low cut top that was two sizes too small; her breasts were pouring out of it.
She smirked as she grabbed a menu and very casually let out another big belch, this one much longer. “A whole lot more where that came from,” she muttered.
She led Greg to his usual table