She suddenly wraps the bra around your neck and tightly squeezes it. She jumps on your back, throwing you off balance and sending you crashing to the ground. You grab at the fabric in a vain attempt to get it off. She stands on your back, pulling hard on the bra. Your vision begins to dim as the life is quickly choked out of you.
Then, without warning, two shots ring out. The mirror in the bathroom shatters and the woman releases you and climbs out the window, with lightning speed. A short blonde man rushes in to help you.
“Damn, that was close. She almost got you.” He helps you to your feet. “I should have know you’d try one more roll with her. You always did have a weakness for the ladies.” He looks out the window for a sign of the woman.
You rub at your sore throat. “Who are you?” you say hoarsely.
He looks at you, “come on , don’t be a wiseass.”
You shake your head, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are. Quite frankly, I have no idea who I am.”
The blonde man regards you with a thoughtful expression, “You really don’t remember, do you?” He sits down heavily on a chair, “Shit. This is going to complicate things.”
He shakes his head. “Well, I might as well start from the top. Your name is . We hired you...” Two more shots ring out and blood stains the man’s chest.
You look around wildly and see the woman he chased out standing in the bathroom window, “If you’re going to play the game, you had better not miss, motherfucker!” she screams. You dive to the floor as she fires a few more shots inside. You hear sirens in the distance and the woman curses, “Fuck! I’ll be back for you later!”
You start to chase after her but a weak voice calls you back. The blonde man gasps, “get to the club…the fireman…you are the fire…man…” with that he dies.
You stand over his body. Club? What club? At least he gave you a name . It doesn’t seem to sound right thought. And fireman? What does that mean?
The sirens get closer. Undoubtedly someone called the cops after the shots. You look down at your prison jumpsuit. Somehow, you get the feeling that this isn’t going to help matters any. You look at the man’s corpse. Sorry, buddy, you think, but I need these more than you. You take off his clothes. The shirt he was wearing is too bloody, but his jacket is wearable. Everything is too short for you, but it beats going around in the jumpsuit. After taking the man's clothes you decide to dress him up in the orange jumpsuit.
You take the gun and newspaper, and jump out of the bathroom window and go down the fire escape. You say the number from the back of the jumpsuit over and over again, as you memorize it. You put the gun into the back of your pants, when you realize you took the man’s wallet with you. You pull it out and find it’s filled with about three hundred dollars in cash. It's mostly in fifties, and with a few twenties. You look at the man’s driver’s license.
Archie Polski. Oddly, the license has no address listed on it, just a name and a date of birth. You look closer at the date. 26-78-54? Those were the same numbers on your jumpsuit. What the hell’s going on here?
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