One time I was riding the last subway train home with my friends, and there were some young middle-eastern guys scattered across the car. There's not much to do on the subway (nobody talks) so I started checking out my fellow passengers, which is when I noticed that four arab fellows (at least, I think they were arabs. They looked all araby. Not in an old-fashioned sikh way but in a hip twenty-first century undercover arab way) kept making eye contact. EYE CONTACT. I knew at once that they were communicating in some kind of secret terrorist code language.
Another look around the car revealed that none of the other travellers were clued in to the danger - they were either reading the advertisements lining the subway car or dozing in their seats, frozen in a subway stupor brought on by the slow, hypnotic rocking of the train.
"Tracer," I thought to myself (well, I used my real name instead of 'Tracer' because that's not how I refer to myself in real life, but the point stands), "you're the only person who's wise to the situation. You've got to do something. You've got to stop this subway train from being hijacked."
Hijacking the subway may sound stupid, but I've seen both Money Train and Speed and can assure you that North American public transit gets targetted by terrorists all the time.
Suddenly, the four arab men stood up and walked towards the centre of the car; clearly, their anti-American plan was being put into motion. I knew I had to act - for who but I could save the day? - but I found myself unable to move, strapped in place by the debilitating seatbelt of primal fear. Time slowed down. I am not a religious man but I will confess to uttering a silent prayer, promising God that I would start carrying a concealed weapon if he would just get me out of this alive.
The terrorists all stopped walking, having reached eachother, and as the doomsday clock ticked down to midnight, proceeded to chat with a couple of young ladies. Then the train stopped, and they got off at the station.
Then I sent my overly long and melodramatic story to womenswallstreet.com because it was my dream to be a writer of crime fiction and not an accountant.
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"Look at me! I'm Tracer! BLAHBLAHBLAH!"
-MBeggar
[This message has been edited by Tracer (edited July 20, 2004).]
[This message has been edited by Tracer (edited July 21, 2004).]
COUCHMAN IS BACK BABY