Harrington 3

Kicked in the Teeth

"I swear to god if you touch her!" Steve shouts as I'm pulled away and thrown into a room to be questioned, "I'll chop your balls off and—"

He's cut off by the slamming of the door, and I look up at the man who roughly snatches me and makes me sit on a bench.

"Nice place you got here, Stalin. Can I call you that? I think I will," I say coolly, crossing my legs and putting on an at ease expression. Call it years of torment, call it being good under pressure, but laughing in the face of someone threatening to hurt me has become second nature. So that's exactly what I do, "though it could use some redecorating."

The man just watches me, not saying a word and provoking me to lean forward and continue.

"My Aunt Cheri is an interior designer," I go on, "I bet she could do some real nice work.
Make it a little less techy and a little more cozy, you know? Maybe some floral wallpaper, a vintage rug, you can make the final calls. Personally, I think a crystal chandelier would really be a game changer—"

Suddenly, I'm struck across the face, sending a hissing pain through my cheek. The man seems smug to have shut me up, though it fades when I face him with the same challenging expression, leaning in with a smirk of my own.

"My father hits harder than you," I say fiercely, wiping the smile clean off his face and making him scowl.

"I will ask you this one time, little girl," he says, his accent thick as molasses, "Who do you work for?"

"You're gonna have to speak up."

"What?"

"I said you're gonna have to be a little louder, comrade," I repeat, enjoying the game I play as he obviously gets annoyed.

"I said," he growls, leaning closer in an intimidating manner, "who do you work for?"

I stare at him for a moment before circling a finger around my ear, "One more time. God, this is embarrassing. I think it's your accent. Try speaking into my right ear, my left one is plugged."

He goes to hit me again, though I anticipate it and swerve backwards, effectively dodging his hand and cheering at the success.

"Steeee-rike one!" I exclaim, dragging out the word like a sports commentator as he swings again, giving me the chance to duck underneath and cackle tauntingly.

"Strike two!" I laugh at his angry expression, "I assume you know how the ballgame works, sir? One more strike and you're outta here. Come on, make a little contact this time, I'm embarrassed for you."

He suddenly grabs my collar and pulls me forward roughly, practically foaming at the mouth.

"I'm done with your little games," he says in fury, "answer the question."

I crinkle my nose in a display of disgust, "How many times a week do you brush your teeth? Seriously, it's unsettling. You're ruining my first interrogation experience. Ever heard of a little invention called the breath mint? Maybe your buddy has one, I'm sure he'd be willing to share. That's what you lot are all about, right? Sharing?"

"WHO DO YOU WORK FOR!?" He shakes my collar, flecks of spit flying into my face.

"Woah!" I say, recoiling from his shouting and laughing softly, "Calm down, Stalin. You know, a little anger management goes a long way. I suggest taking deep breaths and counting to ten."

He says something in Russian, and I wouldn't be surprised if it was a word that belongs in an R-rated movie, as he throws me to the ground in a fit of rage.