Colin Cotterill - Slash and Burn

With Vogal’s oratory and the henchman’s struggled translation in the background, Madame Daeng turned to her husband and smiled.

“It’s that scene, isn’t it?” she said. “The one in your movies where all is lost, the assassins are about to massacre the innocent hostages-then, from nowhere, the hero swings in on a rope and rescues us.”

“I think you were right up to the ‘all is lost’ part,” Siri laughed. “I knew I shouldn’t have fed Ugly this morning. If he was hungry there’s a possibility he’d fight to the death to save me. Failing that….”

“I was thinking more of Captain Boyd making an unlikely return from the dead.”

“If we had a wish for every noodle we’ve ever eaten, it still wouldn’t be enough to make that happen.”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Us too.”

“It’s starting to look that way. If we made a rush for them they might do us the favor of laughing themselves to death.”

Daeng looked around and chuckled.

“We are a ragged lot,” she said. “Most of us wouldn’t make it to our feet before the first bullets hit.”

“When did we get too old for this, Daeng? What happened to those days when we were somersaulting through the air with a cutlass in each hand taking out the enemy twenty at a time?”

“I don’t think that was us, love. That was Bruce Lee.”

“You know, I think you’re right. I often confuse myself with him.”

“I’d sooner have you.”

“And I’d want nobody else but you.”

Their grips tightened.

“It’s been an exceptional eight months together,” she said.

“I’d rather been hoping for several more.”

“Me too.”

Something had happened. The guards were all moving to the same side of the dining room. Siri knew it was the precursor to a firing squad. He wondered what options there were. Rushing the guards was better than sitting back and waiting, but he wondered how many of the stoned hostages were in any fit state to attack. The senator was pointing at him. A guard came wading through the bodies.

“I get to do a solo,” Siri said and gave his wife’s hand a last squeeze before getting uncomfortably to his feet.

“Give them the recitation,” Daeng said. “The really long one you bored everyone to death with at Dtui’s wedding.”

“Madam, that was my own Lao translation of a Marot sonnet.”

“Try that one. It might work again. Siri….”

He stopped and looked back.

“Yes?”

“Did you put clean underwear on this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, that’s something, I suppose.”

He gave her a warm smile and followed the guard who hurried him along with the butt of his gun. From a far room came the sound of the generator starting up. The clattering of the loose washers and nuts was worse than ever. Auntie Bpoo sat erect and strained her ears. At the front of the room, Vogal, with a pistol in his hand, was attempting to force Siri to get to his knees. The doctor refused to do so. The sound of the rattling pipes grew louder.

Bpoo had it.

“Siri,” she called, “put your fingers in your ears.”

She saw Siri smile at the joke.

“Siri, I’m serious,” she called again. “It’s mid-afternoon. There is no generator. Do it.”

Siri immediately understood and, to Vogal’s surprise, pushed his fingers into his ears and began to sing.

“I rather doubt that will help him very much,” said the senator, laughing.

“Daeng, you too,” called Bpoo. “Civilai, if you’re at all conscious. Now. Put your fingers in your ears and hum.”

The last sound Bpoo heard before blocking her own ears and humming something from Perry Como, was a rhythmic metal clatter getting ever closer.

Vogal’s pistol was at Siri’s head. He’d given up on his attempt to make the old fool kneel. He had a few biting words to say before pulling the trigger but his tongue suddenly felt larger than his mouth. To his left, the Thai guards were nodding in time to some distant rhythm. Even Emiliano to his right was rocking from side to side and, apparently, dribbling. Vogal put it down to the lasting effects of the old woman’s tea. He attempted to ask the Filipino what the hell he thought he was doing but the words that left his mouth were alien-not even his own voice. He looked at the hostages freaking out like hippies at a folk concert, waving their fingers, lost behind closed eyes. He looked up to see the Down’s Syndrome guy enter the dining room, banging on a beaten-up tambourine with a stick. He had wads of toilet paper stuffed in his ears and the most infuriating smile on his face. Vogal attempted to level his gun in the retard’s direction but it just swung back and forth in front of him like a conductor’s baton. Then his mind left him completely.

Siri let out a nervous laugh and shook his head. Geung really had packed everything but the morgue sink. He’d brought along the shamanic tambourine. Those who could hear it had fallen into a ritual trance just like the children at Thong Pong middle school. No doubt the tea had weakened everyone’s self-control and made them susceptible to its haunting beat. Nobody knew where they were. Not Vogal, not the guards, and certainly not the guests who rocked and drooled and spoke in strange tongues. Those who had blocked out the sound would have a few seconds to act when the drumming stopped. Siri nodded at Geung who ceased his banging. As quickly as he was able, the doctor relieved Vogal and Emiliano of their weapons. Auntie Bpoo and Daeng took the guns from the other guards. There was no resistance. Civilai had been unable to put his finger in both ears as one was missing so he had succumbed to the sound.

When Vogal and the guards came round they were staring down the barrels of their own guns. The Thais thought it was all quite comical; two old relics and a drag queen having the drop on them. But Emiliano was a professional. He knew your average citizen would never be able to fire at a living being in cold blood. He started to walk toward the kindly looking old lady.

“One more step and I shoot,” said Daeng, realizing too late that he couldn’t understand her.

He took one more step.

She shot.

The bullet made a mess of the fingers of his left hand but he was determined to call her bluff. He took another step. The second bullet went into his shin and he dropped to the other knee. He looked up into the woman’s eyes and she smiled. And he knew this was no ordinary old lady. He and the other bodyguards could tell the next bullet would be aimed at his heart and there’d be no hesitation in pulling the trigger.

“And you think you can shoot me, too?” said Vogal with far less confidence than the words warranted. “I’m a United States senator. If I don’t return in one piece it’ll be enough to start another war.”

Bpoo translated.

“Tell him he thinks far too much of himself,” said Siri. He walked up close to the sweating senator and pushed the pistol into his belly. “The way I heard it, any old criminal can buy themselves a senate seat. Your country will be glad to see the back of you. You’re a murderer. And there are twenty witnesses here who heard you threaten me and confess to Potter’s killing.”

Bpoo passed on the message.

“They don’t know what they heard,” Vogal tried again. “Look at them. They’re all stoned.”

“Then they’ll just have to believe what we tell them, won’t they. And there’s a bullet in that poor Chinese girl over there which certainly matches your gun. Either way, you’re in very deep manure, Senator Vogal.”

“It won’t work, little doctor. You have no idea about the process of international diplomacy. A deal will be made. They’ll exchange me for some political prisoner and I’ll be released with a clean record.”