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<strong>Homeland</strong><br />
I've been snatched twice. This was not the roughest of the lot (that would be when the<br />
DHS grabbed us off Market Street the day the Bay Bridge blew and clubbed us in the head<br />
when we asked what the hell was going on), nor was it the scariest (that would be when<br />
I puked into the bag Carrie Johnstone's squad cinched around my neck, convinced I was<br />
going to choke to death on dumpster-dived pizza). It was so smooth and professional, I<br />
would have given them a customer service award, if I wasn't so busy freaking out.<br />
They stepped out of the car in perfect synchrony just as I came through the door. Two<br />
guys, big and beefy, with the “cop” vibe that always made my neck muscles go as tight as<br />
a tennis racket. One of them stood at the curb, covering me and watching who was around<br />
with a regular, predatory head swivel. The other closed the distance between me and him<br />
in three quick steps, coming right into my personal space, flipping a laminated DHS ID out<br />
of his pocket. Before I could look at it, he'd put it back in his pocket, as neat as a magician<br />
vanishing a card.<br />
“Marcus,” he said. “We'd like to talk to you for a moment.”<br />
When in trouble or in doubt...<br />
“I'd like to have a lawyer present,” I said.<br />
“You won't need a lawyer, it's just an informal chat.” He smelled like Axe body spray. It was<br />
the perfect gagworthy aroma for a huge, looming goon.<br />
“I would like to see your badge again,” I said.<br />
“You don't need to see my badge again. Let's go.”<br />
Run in circles...<br />
I took one step up Mission Street, away from the goon, already looking around for passersby<br />
to call out to. A hand like a bar of iron wrapped itself around my bicep and lifted, and I<br />
felt like my shoulder might separate as my toes dangled over the pavement.<br />
Scream and shout...<br />
“FIRE!” I screamed. No one in the Mission is going to come running if you scream “Help!”<br />
but everyone likes to get a good look at a fire. That was the theory, anyway -- what they<br />
told you in self-defense classes. “FIRE!” I screamed again.<br />
The goon's other hand covered my mouth and nose with an airtight seal, his thumb hooked<br />
under my chin, clamping my jaw shut.<br />
Maybe I should have tried “HELP!”<br />
-..-<br />
They did that cop thing when they put me in the car, pushing my head down with that weird<br />
rough/tender gesture so that I wouldn't brain myself on the door frame. But I was 110<br />
percent certain that these two were not cops, nor DHS, nor anyone else on a government<br />
<strong>SiSU</strong> www.sisudoc.org/ 125
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