Someone's In My Head (WATTYS AWARD WINNER 2015)

Chapter Ten

I froze, right away. Now don't get it the wrong way. I'm not a retard. As I stood, unmoving, my mind was racing, the gears in it whirring and spinning at the speed of light. An excuse was already formulating in my mind, but Phil ruined the suspense by blurting it out.

"You are a maintenance worker." He spoke in an urgent tone. "You were just irrigating the blockage in one of the sewer branches."

I was never more grateful for not changing into another suit. The orange jacket, along with the brownish stains all over my jeans, served as a fairly convincing façade for me being a maintenance worker.

I turned slowly around, putting on the most surprised face I could possibly manage. "Sorry?"

It was a blue-uniformed security guard, judging by his stance and his typical police cap. Not to mention he had a pistol by his belt and a walkie-talkie on his chest. He was clearly irritated at my lack of positive response. "I said, what are you doing snooping around?"

I straightened up. "I was just clearin' up one of the blocked pipe branches. Is there a pro'em 'ere, sir?" I faked a typical rapper accent. Don't judge me. I'm not being prejudiced or anything. It's just that in the movies, most maintenance workers seem to have a rapper accent, so I figured it might work here.

The guard approached me carefully. I noticed his hand twitching nervously on the gun at his belt, but my eyes were fixed on his radio. Please don't reach for that radio. I thought. Whatever you do, just don't touch that button. I knew a couple of possibilities if he rang the alarm, most of it which led to possible incarceration and even torture.

Just when he was a few feet away from me, he halted. "What's your favourite colour?" He asked a no-brainer question.

Not again. I thought, panic flaring within me.

"I suppose I don't have to ask you to improvise?" Phil wasn't even freaking out. What's wrong with this guy? Does he have an adrenaline disorder or something?

I had no choice but to use the same old trick. "What? I'm sorry, I can't hear you." I dipped my head in his direction.

The guard was losing his patience. He came a few steps closer. "The guard at the gate, he told you a colour. What's it?"

"Let him come closer," Phil said. "An arm's length is the best."

"I hope you know what you're doing," I replied. Then, to the guard, "I have no idea what you're talking about." I admitted, shrugging helplessly.

The guard frowned. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to bring you in." He approached me, with his right hand producing a pair of handcuffs. I saw his left hand reach towards the radio.

I didn't have to remind Phil. Once the guard was within spitting distance, my right hand shot up, blocking his left hand with a deft smack at his wrist, a blow which pretty much rendered his hand useless for the meantime. Almost simultaneously, my left hand grabbed his right wrist (this is getting confusing) and gave it a sharp twist.

The guard winced, and was about to shout out reflexively, but my right hand took care of that. With a ridge hand to the windpipe, I silenced the (I had to admit) poor fellow. It was as if I'd hit the 'mute' button on the guy. My leg followed with a leg takedown, throwing him to the ground, and I kept him down by pressing my knee on his chest.

As the guard writhed on the ground, gagging and coughing, I withdrew his gun from his belt. Then, with a crack, I whacked him senseless with the butt of the weapon.