There she is, the girl of my dreams. Knees on the floor, gag in mouth, surrounded by other scared looking hostages, hands tied up behind her back, AK47 to her head. To her magnificent head. Oh crikey, I hope it doesn’t get blown to pieces. It’s a really nice head.
There he is, the terrorist of my dreams. Standing behind her, smile on face, surrounded by his scary looking minions, AK47 in hands, his head in my scope. He’s got a horrible head. I’m guessing. He’s wearing a balaclava, but you’d have to be an ugly, angry looking man for wanting to be a terrorist. Look at Osama; he’s not exactly torso of the week is he? Although, I’ve not seen him with his top off. Maybe he works out. That’s what I’d look for if I was hunting Osama Bin Laden; any gym supplies delivered to a cave. At least he works out. I wonder if he moisturises: all that sun can’t be helping his skin.
There I am, the saviour. Hiding behind a wooden crate of unknown content, sweat on face, surrounded by more crates, M16 (with silencer) at the ready, flash bang in the hand. And my head is… yer, it’s fine. Better looking than Osama! But I’m no Brad Pitt. Unless we’re talking about Brad Pitt during the beard period. I haven’t got a beard, but that hairy mask did him no favours. Let’s just say I look good enough to be on posters advertising bank loans with a typical rate of 8.4% APR. Not a bad percentage. Not bad at all.
“How is vault door coming on?” exclaims the big dog terrorist with, I presume, a Russian accent.
“We are nearly done, General Wozniak” barks the minion crouching by the immense circular gateway to what I presume is gold. He also carries the Russian accent. Very lucky for me they don’t speak in their native tongue to each other. Wouldn’t have a clue what’d be happening.
“A couple of minutes to go”.
Breathe; the silence before the storm. Concentration is key to success if I want to save her; and the other hostages too of course. I’ve not forgotten them. I’d feel terribly guilty if one of them were to die under my watch. Don’t wanna end up incessantly washing my hands like crazy old Lady Macbeth. It’s just that, you know, I am a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him. That’s a Notting Hill quote. Great film. Great area. Went there not long ago for a little browse. Hugh Grant’s door’s not blue anymore. It’s…
“Open!” shouts the minion.
Oh shit. Concentrate. Breathe. Flashbang over the crate. Bang. Flash. Go.
I stand out from behind the crate to see everyone cradling their eyes and shrieking in confused panic. I run towards the enemy. I pull the trigger. Bam! One down. Headshot. 100 points. Still running. Still blind. Melee attack. Knife to the chest. Slash. 2 out, 3 to go. Not for long. Bam Bam! The two by the vault slump to the floor like a sack of Russian Potatoes. One more. The big one. It’s always the boss to kill last. Pivot 180. Aim M16. Pause. Shit.
He’s still recovering from the flashbang, but he’s not stupid. He needed cover. He got it. He got her. Pistol in hand to her head. To her magnificent head. Oh crikey, I hope it doesn’t get blown to pieces. It’s a really nice head.
I look into her beautiful blue eyes. She returns the stare into my beautiful brown eyes. (Shut up, they’re really nice). Terrorism personified opens his eyes, but he can’t seem to focus. I can’t tell what colour they are, but from this distance, they also seem quite beautiful. I look back at her and suggest she ducks down by rapidly moving my eyes to the floor. She does one better and launches her leg backwards and Bam! One down for her. Kick to the balls. Ouch. I know he’s a terrorist but does he deserve that pain. Don’t know. I put the dog down, out of his misery, bullet to the head. Bam! You’re toast. Toast splattered with Russian brainberry jam.
Breathe; the silence after the storm. All is calm, soothing, to the ears, but the Jackson Pollock carnage left behind by hurricane me is scorching my retinas. But it was a necessary evil to let these innocent people go; like Moses with an infantry weapon.
I’ve not created the most quixotic of scenes, but I did save her in the way that would make Walt Disney proud. Prince Charming (and other adjectives which defines his sensitive yet alpha male characteristics) blinds the balaclava-wearing dragon with magic canisters of light and slays it with a stab of a sword travelling at 853 metres per second, liberating the blood-covered princess in distress from his Russian claws.
The time is right, her perfume fills my head, the stars get red and oh the night’s so blue. And then she goes and spoils it all, by saying something stupid like “M mmmm mmm”.
“What?” The gag is very effective. “I have no idea what you said.”
I laugh. She attempts a smile, but it looks odd with a mouth full of cloth. I laugh harder. She looks confused.
I walk past some hostages waving their coupled hands in my direction, in anticipation of the sharp edge of my blade to divorce them once and for all. And I’ll get to you in good time, chill out, I’ve just saved you all from inevitable death. I deserve a kiss from dream lady damn it! But I’m not kissing cloth. And I should untie her hands so she can rub my cheek as we embrace. Mmm. That Notting Hill moment is finally standing in front of me.
I place myself behind her and slash the ropes to reveal the bracelets of bloody blisters. I recoil at the sight. And yes, I know, it’s weird that I’m at ease recreating the big bang with someone’s head, but I wince at the smouldering wrists of a smooth skinned lady. She just doesn’t deserve it. She’s a lady.
Hold our horses, Pankhurst! I’m not saying women can’t handle themselves… I’m just… Where’s all this smoke coming from?
I discover myself in my living room with the TV lighting the darkened room with a Discovery Channel documentary about video games. I expel myself from the sofa to find my head in the clouds of pumpkin seed smelling smoke, out of the living room, through the corridor to find the kitchen swallowed in a dough of black smoke, burning the hair of my nostrils. I pinch my nose, which aggravates the pain I endured when I tweezed some nose hairs earlier.
Crikey! Two parallel slices of fire extends out of the toaster. I panic. I unplug the toaster, seize it, fling it in the sink and suffocate it with water, secreting this satisfying sizzling sound when water comes into contact with a hot surface.
I’m such an idiot. You should know this about me. My head is constantly in the clouds, fantasising, floating, forgetting about reality. I whisk away on whimsical adventures and reality bites me in the arse with burned brunch and the threat of turning my home into ashes. Although, I did like the adrenalin rushing through my veins; it’s nothing compared to killing terrorists and saving the woman I love. Lauren, that’s her name. But it wasn’t a bad rush for a Tuesday morning in Crouch End.
I open the windows to allow the smoke out and the fresh air in. I stick my head out for a few gasps of London air. That’s better. Oh, what am I supposed to eat now?
I look at the sad looking toaster in its silver grave, drenched, dead. The toaster’s toast. I chuckle. Should I bury it? No. That’s stupid. And weird. So no toast. I open the cupboard and pull out a bowl for some corn flakes. I then top it up with a spoonful of sugar to help the mediocre taste go down. If I had a take away the night before then I’d eat that, but I don’t, so I won’t. Cornflakes it is. I fill a bowl about half way, head to the fridge and… Oh no! Dum dum duuuum. There’s no milk. I’m gonna have to go to the shops.