High Steaks: A Bjorn Trilogeé Adventure

Chapter 11: Bjorn

Awaking into total darkness, Bjorn's body bolted upright, his head ripping through the taped up cardboard box he was shipped in. He fell over, covered in Styrofoam packing peanuts, coughing up a few on a lime green rug. Bjorn pulled himself up onto a nearby bed and brushed the peanuts off of his body. Still in a bit of a daze, he looked around the room. It seemed to be a very nice hotel room; outside the window he saw the Washington monument. "Some way to travel" he thought to himself.

The cell phone on his bed started to ring. Lacking anything better to do, he answered it.

"Um ... Hello?" asked Bjorn a little confused.

"Aye say, Aye Say, Boy. How was your little trip? My most egregious apologies for that little unexpected drugging," said the booming voice of Gen. Frank Lee Muhdeer. So booming, in fact, that Bjorn had to hold the phone a foot away from his ear to prevent internal bleeding. "Sometimes it's just the best way to control you."

"Well, that's okay I suppose," replied Bjorn quickly, trying to end this conversation.

"Look here, you should have all the stuff you need to protect this Senator fellah. Try to keep a low profile and wait till Abe shows up and you know, fucking kill him and stuff."

"I'm starting to have some moral reservations about killing this guy, I don't really know him."

"Aye say, boy. You weren't chosen simply because your massive student loan debt but also because your there Grandfather was the greatest hero of World War Two and World War Two Part 2: the Revenge of Hitler's Brain. If he could kill twenty Nazi's singlehandedly then I'm sure you can kill some ponce British queer. We here are all big fans of your gramps. Don't let us down."

"Ya, okay sure." Bjorn is still wrapping his brain around the idea that his psychopath of a grandfather was some war hero. His fondest memory as a child on his grandfather's chicken farm was being woken up on Christmas to the sound of live ammo as he was forced to crawl under barbwire in the cold mud to get his Transformer (which later turned out to be a Go-Bot).

"Is this a secure line?" asked Bjorn. It seemed a reasonable question.

"Of course, it's the latest encryption technology and plus you're still high as hell right now. If anyone is listening to this, to them it sounds like a bunch of mumbled nonsense. You're hardly even speaking English son. Your brain is all sorta fucked up. I just happen to be fluent in 'fucked up'. Don't worry it won't last much longer. Have fun," and with that General Muhdeer hung up the phone.

Bjorn looked down at the bed and saw that someone had left him some clothes. A white collared shirt, a tweed sports jacket and sensible slacks. After getting dressed, Bjorn looked through his shipping box.

One Speckled Herring Semi-Automatic pistol

One set of keys (small fuzzy dice included)

One fake moustache garrote (handle bared and blonde)

One folder, name and location of Senator Paul A. Titian (Democrat, Minnesota)

Bjorn holstered his herring pistol and attached the moustache, "I feel like a real life barista, right now" he thought.

He left his hotel room and noticed that the door to his room said 'Janitors closet: Employee's only'. Bjorn kept his head down and made his way to the elevator. He took it down three floors to the underground garage. No one seemed to notice him. His moustache disguise was working like a charm.

At the garage, he wandered around beeping his keychain trying to see if he had a car in there. He finally heard a return beep ... and he saw it, a 1961 Ford Utopian Turtle Top. One of the worst cars that Ford had ever produced, showing that even a racist Hitler loving anti-Semite can make a mistake once in a while. The front end was said to look like a woman's reproductive organ wrapped in chrome, a slight reminder of why most people have sex with the lights off. The Postal Service got them for fairly cheap when they were going to be sold to the military for target practice. They souped them up with the latest technology; GPS, voice command, toaster, fax machine and rocket launcher. The Turtle Top was lime green and had his license plate: KICKASS1.