An Old Friend

"My name is John Luther. I need your help, Mr. Garison. you won't believe what I saw!

"I saw two men dressed as security guards bring something really heavy inside the Symbiocyte Pharmaceuticals basement. You see, I was on tour. It was one of those monthly tours, and I had gone below the lobby through a secret staircase located near the southern corner's tip.

"It was a container of some sort, judging by the appearance. When they opened it, I saw a huge warhead. On its body was scribbled 5:FT or something like that. So, I quietly paced forward to see some more details on the thing when suddenly, Mord Dickens came with a troop of soldiers, real US military soldiers! The troop carefully took the warhead and placed it inside a wooden crate and loaded it onto a freightliner truck.

"I got into my car, an Aston Martin, and followed the truck to the docks. But one of them, a stout, red-cheeked, yellow-bellied soldier, saw me and raised an alarm. In no time, they all saw me and started shooting at me with UMZ 300 assault rifles. Oh, how I had to run! I ducked beside my car and stayed hidden for hours, from morning till dusk. Afterwards, when they had all gone a long distance away, when it was safe for me to come out, I scrambled into my car and drove off to the nearest hospital. My left arm was riddled with bullet holes, and so was my car. Fortunately, I paid some cash and everything's fit as a fiddle.

"If you wish to come and meet me, drop by at Café Bistro anytime. If you'd like to help me, I think now's the time to show up."

"Umm... who exactly are you, John Luther?" Harrison asked, trying to have a flashback of his memory.

"Why? Can't you recognize your old friend?"

Just then, Harrison's brain stumbled upon a fact. "Oh! Luther! My old friend! How come you're in NYC? I thought you were—"

"—dead?" Luther finished for him. "Well not anymore! If you ever have the common sense to meet me, drop by at Café Bistro."

***

The next day, Harrison walked calmly outdoors to face the fresh breeze, the honking of cars' horns, and people striding off about their business.

"Oi, taxi!" he hailed a passing American-yellow taxicab. "How much is the fare for Café Bistro?"

"That'd be $14.99, mister," the bald, and aging taxi driver replied, baring his yellow teeth. "The direct road of four miles has been temporarily closed down for some construction. We have to take the seven-mile highway."

"And how long will it take?"

"If we start now, we'll be there by noon 12 o'clock."

"Can't you get there any faster? Say... before 11?"

"Sure, but that is gonna cost you an extra five bucks."

"Alright, take me there... FAST!"

***

The cab halted beside a three-star bar, so-called the Café Bistro. Harrison paid the driver his fare and bid him goodbye before advancing into the café.

Inside, it was noisy enough to make even a healthy person deaf within 24 hours. People of all sorts, from young teenagers to rotting old men, were seated in groups of six, either drinking beer or eating beef burgers. Two bar tenders wrote down orders and passed them to the chefs through slits in the walls behind their oily, and fatty backsides. From a corner, someone called out Harrison's name.

"Yo my man, Harrison! Come here and wolf down some burgers with me," Luther called out. "Over here, you baby-faced rascal! Come and sit beside me."

Harrison did as he said and sat down on one of the plastic benches with a wooden table. There was a mug of beer in Luther's left hand, and a juicy-looking burger in his right.

"Good. That's my bro," Luther's voice muffled through the bits of burger in his mouth. Luther himself was a muscular man, his skin dark (he is an African-American), and having the style of Rastans and muscled like an ox. "It's good to see that you have come here so soon."

"What? Do you think that the difference between midnight and morning is' so soon'?"

"What? Ofcourse not, I have been sitting here for you."

"That means you've been sitting here and eating jumbo-sized burgers for EIGHT HOURS!"

Luther made a face as if he were going to vomit. "You know what, Harrison, I think we should meet at your place. I'll hang out at your place tomorrow."

This time, Harrison made the face.

***

The next morning, a black Aston Martin parked in front of the slum house. A muscular man in a white vest and brown paint-splattered trousers steeped out of the car. That particular man was none other than John Luther, a well-known bad-ass buddy exceptional at handling guns and kidnapping 'thugs' at the dead of the night.

As he opened the rusty, moss-covered doors, there was a deep stench of musk, sweat, and body oil. A single tungsten bulb illuminated the ground floor.

The dust had covered the floors like an extra layer of paint over a white-washed wall.

"Hello? Anyone in here?" he asked to the dark gloom of the room. There was no one in the lobby. Luther found the stairs and climbed till he reached the landing of the Garison residence.

Ring, cring! The doorbell rang. There was a sign that hung above the door, which said, "Sweet wishes are the backbone of sweet dreams." Luther was somehow right, "Harrison really is a baby-faced little freak."

The door opened.

"Oh there you are!" Harrison greeted his friend. "I thought you'd never come! What took you so long?"

"What do you think?" Luther had a very heavy, gruff voice which matched his biceps and 6-pack abs. "I got stuck in traffic jam."

"In New York?"

"No, in California, you dumb bird! I came all the way from there to bring you news. I was following them again and eavesdropped a bit. I came up with this: The men are coming to NY Hotel for a meeting."

"Thanks for the crucial data. But I'm sorry, I cannot help you. I'm on vacation. Now, if you'd like to go somewhere else, you may leave now. Goodbye."

Harrison was about to close the door when an idea came in his mind. He reopened the door and said, "Okay, you win! I'm ready for a new mission."

"Then let's get rolling!"

***

The Aston Martin cut through the traffic like a knife cutting through butter. The honking of the cars was enough to give someone a headache.

"You should learn the basics of car driving first. Like skimming through traffic and stuff," Harrison remarked proudly. "Look at me! I never drove a single vehicle in my life, besides a F-15 military aircraft, and still I'm good at it!"

Luther sat beside him, trying his best to ignore the talk of Garison. He never knew that he was soooo talkative. He patiently sat there in his own car, trying to think which power on Earth made his mind to let Harrison Garison drive the car.

Luther tuned in to his favorite music channel: MH21. The music on the menu was "Real".

The car passed by cars, busses, and trucks and frequently changed directions and paths. At first, the car was being driven on a dirty street, then into a narrow alley, next on a highway, and over a bridge, and finally on freshly graveled road. They came to a halt and parked the car near a giant skyscraper of a building. The 20m x 5m sign, above the glass doors, read: "New York Hotel, your best friend in comfort is here."

"Okay, here's the plan," Luther showed Harrison the complete geological map of the New York Hotel. "This here is the entrance, the ground floor over there." He pointed to the glass doors. "The next room on the other side is the lobby with elevators and stairs, got it?"

Harrison nodded, "Yes, all in one's head."

"So, the elevators lead to the 18th floor. The men have booked their stay over there. One of them, probably their boss, was called Alwatt Woden by his partners.

"So, you go first and deactivate all the security cameras and activate the elevators. The elevators will lead to the secured area on the 18th floor. No need to worry about anything after that, 'cause that's my checkpoint.

"You only have to go to the 18th floor and kill all the guards. But remember this – Not a finger on Woden, or else the entire gang of mafias shall rise against us. Okay then, let's go!"

He handed Harrison a MPsk submachine gun and took one for himself, as well, from the hood of the car.

Startled by the sight of such heavy weaponry, Harrison said, "Where did you get such weapons from, Luther?"

"Oh, those... I just bought them last week from Ammo-Nation, the best gun dealers in town."

"But... aren't these forbidden?"

"Why o'course they are! Why else d'you think I always hide them in the car? Now shut your mouth and work your bones and muscles. Lock and load, baby!"

***

The guard at the front desk was reading New York Times' crime edition. He didn't notice anything as Harrison approached near him and shot him down.

Harrison strode silently towards the security room at the corner. Even though there was no one inside the room, he felt there was someone watching him, from a distance. He let his eyes adjust in the dim light.

The security room was full of computer screens, buttons, levers, shafts, and other controls that were enough to keep a 24/7 watch over a V.I.P. such as the president Barak Obama. Two CCTV cameras were silently recording Harrison's movements from the ceiling.

When Harrison stopped midway and aimed his gun at the CCTV cameras, a trigger went off with a short, sharp beep. He was about to pull the trigger (not of the cameras, but of his gun, you silly!) when an electronic voice spoke, "Alert! An intruder in the house! Get your guns ready! Alert!"

'Damn it!' Harrison swore under his breath. 'How could he have been so stupid?'

He slowly placed his gun down on the floor and reluctantly put his hands above his head.

Two men, dressed in black, hurried down the stairs and found Harrison Garison kneeling on the floor. They commanded him to stand up and follow them to their boss.

Meanwhile, outside, Luther was watching the whole incident. He waited for five minutes before changing his plan and reloaded his MPsk as he sprinted into action, towards the hotel.

Inside, a criminal mastermind looked upon his new prisoner, Harrison Garison. After questioning him, he thought it was no use keeping him alive, and thus, he got ready to fire his gun. But at the same moment, Luther appeared. Alwatt grunted as he placed a kick on Harrison's body.

"Game over, Mr. Garison," Woden grinned. "Game... over..."