Nothing could be more discomforting than wearing a tuxedo for three days straight, nothing at all. The compressed sensation that over the days becomes suffocating, like a self-seeded cover crop composting over my skin, is far from what I expected when I went to buy Bavarian sausages for the Mayor and his wife before his Thursday gala. Thirty pairs of downcast, scared eyes follow my topsy-turvy steps to the restroom, as if I were a poltergeist, free from the oppressive captivity of living in this crime infested town. The men with the guns have quieted down; their faces may be hot with sweat and desperation under their woolen ski masks.
“Stupid morons,” I think to myself as I take a leak “who takes thirty hostages in the middle of summer wearing woolen ski masks?” Cursing this collective kismet I pace back to the store, followed by the barrel of a semi-automatic rifle. Rows of cop cars line the sidewalk like a knocked down domino row. Smoke obscures the buildings across the way, the window display is dirty with ashes and soot. A car chassis burns black a few feet away. The nefarious bomb blast was warning enough; the outlaws were not taking any bullshit and would kill each one of us if their demands weren’t met. After robbing the bank across the street, their getaway went sour and all they were left with was this place. Sporadic gunfire startles the woman next to me. She begins to sob again, for the umpteenth time in the last three days. She looks at me pleadingly, almost irate. I must look like a sort of James Bond to her. I picture myself jumping up and kicking all of their guns and asses with smooth, calculated movements. Then the ghoul closest to me mutters something harsh towards our direction and I remember I’m just a public accountant with friends in smart places. I don’t move smoothly and I’m too scared to fight anyone. I’m just a guy being held up hostage in a North side delicatessen.