Elliot’s eye tooth pierced through the skin of his cheek as he was dealt the backhanded slap. The guard’s hand throbbed with pain after delivering such a heavy blow. The new laceration was barely discernable on a face that had been badly beaten. A second guard entered the interrogation room and rushed over to his co-worker, who stood shaking the pain from his hand.
“I think we may have the wrong guy,” the new guard hastily whispered. He discreetly revealed a photograph to his friend. The portrait looked nothing like Elliot, even before the hours of torture.
“Fuck,” the first guard yelled, “but the order came from the top: Take care of Elliot James Scott.”
“What do we do now?”
“We have to finish him off,” the officer asserted. “We can’t let him back on the streets now.” He pulled a handgun from his holster and aimed at the bloody target. He fired.
Elliot woke immediately from the nightmare. He could feel his own perspiration in the material of the seat. “We have now arrived in Los Angles,” came a greeting across the PA; “the current temperature is 75 degrees Fahrenheit; please remain seated until the captain switches off the seatbelt sign.”
Elliot waited mindlessly in the long line at LAX customs. When he finally reached the end of queue 23 he glanced over at the designated airport official. It was the guard from his dream; the similarities were undeniable. Elliot had no time to contemplate the situation. “Next,” the officer yelled. Even his voice was the same. Elliot walked nervously to the counter window; his hand shook as he offered his travel documents. He was sweating profusely which made him feel suspicious; this caused further perspiration. The officer looked Elliot up and down suspiciously, comparing him to the information on file. “Elliot James Scott,” he said, sternly.
“Yes,” Elliot confirmed.
“Enjoy your stay in California.” The customs employee offered a friendly smile as he handed back the passport.
“I think we may have the wrong guy,” the new guard hastily whispered. He discreetly revealed a photograph to his friend. The portrait looked nothing like Elliot, even before the hours of torture.
“Fuck,” the first guard yelled, “but the order came from the top: Take care of Elliot James Scott.”
“What do we do now?”
“We have to finish him off,” the officer asserted. “We can’t let him back on the streets now.” He pulled a handgun from his holster and aimed at the bloody target. He fired.
Elliot woke immediately from the nightmare. He could feel his own perspiration in the material of the seat. “We have now arrived in Los Angles,” came a greeting across the PA; “the current temperature is 75 degrees Fahrenheit; please remain seated until the captain switches off the seatbelt sign.”
Elliot waited mindlessly in the long line at LAX customs. When he finally reached the end of queue 23 he glanced over at the designated airport official. It was the guard from his dream; the similarities were undeniable. Elliot had no time to contemplate the situation. “Next,” the officer yelled. Even his voice was the same. Elliot walked nervously to the counter window; his hand shook as he offered his travel documents. He was sweating profusely which made him feel suspicious; this caused further perspiration. The officer looked Elliot up and down suspiciously, comparing him to the information on file. “Elliot James Scott,” he said, sternly.
“Yes,” Elliot confirmed.
“Enjoy your stay in California.” The customs employee offered a friendly smile as he handed back the passport.