The Sugob Chronicles by Benjamin Hatfield

Author:Benjamin Hatfield
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2013-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

The Shirley Temples were drugged. You know, they actually got us that time. Or rather, got Max, I wouldn’t have fallen for that if it hadn’t been for him. I don’t really care one way or the other about Shirley Temples. I’ll keep telling myself that. Yeah. That’s right.

I woke up in a psychiatrist’s chair. Or maybe it was a dentist’s chair. Or maybe a cross between the two. Anyway, it was a high-backed, reclining, leather chair on a swivel mount with armrests and footrests and a headrest. And I was strapped to it in a big way. I even had a big ol’ leather strap across my forehead holding my head down. I could barely move my head to the side enough to see Max similarly restrained to my left. He was not awake yet.

I looked around the room. It looked like the family room of a nice suburban home. Two story, open foyer, four bedrooms, two and a half baths, both formals, separate utility room, three car garage, and a family room just like this one. Of course, I could only see the current room, but I imagined the rest clear as day. By the way, what the hell is a half bath? Is that when you take a shower but don’t wash your hair?

There was one difference in this room and the magical suburban one, and it wasn’t the fireplace, where a fire was currently crackling nicely on the wall to the right: it was the large mirror opposite and the steel door to the right of it. The mirror was obviously one-way. But who was watching?

There was one other deviation from suburbanism: the ceiling was covered in speakers, or what looked like speakers. All these six inch, perforated disks that said Bose on them. They were probably speakers. Why would you go to any trouble to fake speakers?

Just then, a voice rang out from above. They were speakers.

“Welcome to my home,” the voice began. It was of indeterminate sex, neither too high to be male, nor too low to be female. It was sonorous and nondescript. It had no detectable accent. It sounded vaguely familiar, but, then again, maybe not. It was the most neutral voice I had ever heard. It might be computer generated or massaged. It was neither too loud nor too soft. It was perfect. It woke Max.

“I trust both your trip here and current position might be characterized as comfortable,” the voice continued.

Just why is it that when the bad dudes catch you and hold you hostage, whether you are tied to the rack and being torn apart, or sipping martinis in the Jacuzzi with beautiful members of the opposite sex, they always ask you if you are comfortable? Back in like 100,000 B.C., when the first bad guy did it to the first good guy, it might have been original and witty. By now it is truly cliché. Don’t these guys have any better lines? How about coming into the

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