Read Online This Is the End by Eric Pollarine - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eric Pollarine
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my body with the corner of her desk and pull myself to the door controls.
“Come on, come on, fucking work,” I say to the finger scanner as I lay my index finger on the little glass. I can see the laser inside is still working, see the little crisscross of red light on my finger tip.
“Come on,” I scream at the screen. Then I hear the lock click behind me. The door to my office opens and I crawl inside and wait to hear it close again. The room springs to life, power comes back on. Lights flicker, screens load. I hear computers boot up. I’m shaking uncontrollably now, every muscle in my body is tensing and releasing all at once.
I look around and see the room spinning. Then I see the barrel of a gun. I hear a click. I see boots.
“Who the fuck are you, and how did you get in here?” asks someone—sounds like a woman. The barrel of a gun is very cold. Never knew that before. I can’t answer back, I’m so tired. I look over and there are more feet.
“Help me. Please?” I manage to ask. My throat is closing up, can’t stop the shaking.
Someone kicks me in the head.
Thank you.
4.
“Who are you?” asks the woman who held the gun to my head earlier. She’s standing in front of me and I’m strapped to a chair, arms and legs bound tight. My left eye is incredibly swollen; I can barely see out of it. Boots kicked me in the head.
“Who the fuck are you ?” I ask back, and then regret saying anything as her open hand slams against my face. Sometimes you’re the windshield; sometimes you’re the fly , says my brain. I shake my head and try to focus again.
“I’m the one asking questions here, so I’m gonna ask you again: who are you, how did you get in here, and what are you doing here?”
She’s not very pretty. Hard lines mark the corners of her mouth—“Frown lines,” Janet used to call them. Her eyes are cold and hard. She has short hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her clothes look like they fell off the back of a truck bound for a survivalist dyke convention. I run my tongue over my lips trying not to laugh at my own joke and taste blood.
“I need water. Please, some water and then I’ll tell you,” I say back and brace for another slamming fist. To my surprise I get a bottle of water with a straw instead of another smack.
“Here,” she says and I take a small sip. The water is cold and tastes like blood mixed with nothing, but it helps. There’s another person standing next to her. He’s skinny and wearing similar clothing. He has guns.
He looks just as tired as she does; his eyes are just as cold, black and empty. She pulls the straw and bottle away from me and I try to smile the five thousand dollar smile at her. I don’t think it’s going to work. I don’t think my smile is worth that much anymore.
“I own this building,” I begin to say but Skinny cuts me off.
“Nobody owns buildings anymore, asshole,” he says but she puts up her hand and Skinny obeys.
Good. Now I know who’s in charge. I look at Skinny and make sure he knows I’d like to snap his neck. I probably couldn’t, at least not in this condition. But still, it’s the thought that counts.
“Can I finish?” I ask them but really, I’m still staring at Skinny. Nobody moves. I don’t get another hand in the face. Skinny looks the other way, out towards the windows.
“Good. Like I was saying my name is Jeff and I own this building. Maybe you’ve heard of me: Jeff Sorbenstein? I was Time magazine’s Man of the Year last year.”
I see her face soften; Skinny is still looking out the window, completely not paying attention. Then he spits on the floor.
“Hey, what the fuck, do I come over to your house and spit on your floor?” I say to his back.
He turns back to me and laughs and then comes in real close. His breath is hot and smells terrible.
“Listen,” he says, “for all intents and purposes, champ, this is my home so if I want to spit, shit or anything else on the fucking floor, then I
“Come on, come on, fucking work,” I say to the finger scanner as I lay my index finger on the little glass. I can see the laser inside is still working, see the little crisscross of red light on my finger tip.
“Come on,” I scream at the screen. Then I hear the lock click behind me. The door to my office opens and I crawl inside and wait to hear it close again. The room springs to life, power comes back on. Lights flicker, screens load. I hear computers boot up. I’m shaking uncontrollably now, every muscle in my body is tensing and releasing all at once.
I look around and see the room spinning. Then I see the barrel of a gun. I hear a click. I see boots.
“Who the fuck are you, and how did you get in here?” asks someone—sounds like a woman. The barrel of a gun is very cold. Never knew that before. I can’t answer back, I’m so tired. I look over and there are more feet.
“Help me. Please?” I manage to ask. My throat is closing up, can’t stop the shaking.
Someone kicks me in the head.
Thank you.
4.
“Who are you?” asks the woman who held the gun to my head earlier. She’s standing in front of me and I’m strapped to a chair, arms and legs bound tight. My left eye is incredibly swollen; I can barely see out of it. Boots kicked me in the head.
“Who the fuck are you ?” I ask back, and then regret saying anything as her open hand slams against my face. Sometimes you’re the windshield; sometimes you’re the fly , says my brain. I shake my head and try to focus again.
“I’m the one asking questions here, so I’m gonna ask you again: who are you, how did you get in here, and what are you doing here?”
She’s not very pretty. Hard lines mark the corners of her mouth—“Frown lines,” Janet used to call them. Her eyes are cold and hard. She has short hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her clothes look like they fell off the back of a truck bound for a survivalist dyke convention. I run my tongue over my lips trying not to laugh at my own joke and taste blood.
“I need water. Please, some water and then I’ll tell you,” I say back and brace for another slamming fist. To my surprise I get a bottle of water with a straw instead of another smack.
“Here,” she says and I take a small sip. The water is cold and tastes like blood mixed with nothing, but it helps. There’s another person standing next to her. He’s skinny and wearing similar clothing. He has guns.
He looks just as tired as she does; his eyes are just as cold, black and empty. She pulls the straw and bottle away from me and I try to smile the five thousand dollar smile at her. I don’t think it’s going to work. I don’t think my smile is worth that much anymore.
“I own this building,” I begin to say but Skinny cuts me off.
“Nobody owns buildings anymore, asshole,” he says but she puts up her hand and Skinny obeys.
Good. Now I know who’s in charge. I look at Skinny and make sure he knows I’d like to snap his neck. I probably couldn’t, at least not in this condition. But still, it’s the thought that counts.
“Can I finish?” I ask them but really, I’m still staring at Skinny. Nobody moves. I don’t get another hand in the face. Skinny looks the other way, out towards the windows.
“Good. Like I was saying my name is Jeff and I own this building. Maybe you’ve heard of me: Jeff Sorbenstein? I was Time magazine’s Man of the Year last year.”
I see her face soften; Skinny is still looking out the window, completely not paying attention. Then he spits on the floor.
“Hey, what the fuck, do I come over to your house and spit on your floor?” I say to his back.
He turns back to me and laughs and then comes in real close. His breath is hot and smells terrible.
“Listen,” he says, “for all intents and purposes, champ, this is my home so if I want to spit, shit or anything else on the fucking floor, then I
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