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JackCain · (08-16-2017)

What’s that sound?

I grab my head, and I slowly open my eyes.

Where the hell-

But my mind cuts off my mouth. It’s bright as all hell outside, and I’m surprised I slept this long. I’m lying in a crevice of a wall about four feet away from a mostly-empty parking lot that is nicely complemented by a decaying dumpster.

It’s awfully quiet once the ringing in my ears fades to a dull static cry. I ignore it.

This place doesn’t seem unusual. For some reason, I know that I’m supposed to be here, but I’m finding it hard to recall what the hell happened.

A cry! That was it! No, a shriek. A fucking shriek from a cold-blooded fiend that would make any pansy piss themselves on the spot. That sound was disgusting, it was inhuman. If a priest heard that wail, he would have insisted it was Christ himself sending Satan to the depths of a hell, never to return.

And then I scrambled, they couldn’t hold me there, and I sure as all hell would not go without a fight. I clawed them away, and I ignored their bludgeoning attacks. I felt my arm tingle when they stabbed me with the hypodermic needle, but I yanked it out. It wasn’t going to stop me. If I had so much as stumbled, I would’ve been dead.

Luckily, I burst through the door of the Masonic Temple and there was still light. Cars drove by, and I found myself hobbling through the city. But they didn’t follow me. At least, they didn’t try to drag me back. They didn’t want to make a scene, whether they had shape-shifted into people or not.

That was a threat to their very livelihood, and that’s how I got up here. That’s why I’m in some parking lot in North Philadelphia, with an aching fucking head. Not a penny to my name, not a place to call home.

I contemplate going back to bed, huddled against the wall, but I think better of it. I realized that my throbbing head probably has to do with the fact that I’ve had no food in at least a day. That’s traumatic if you typically inhale six to eight thousand calories a day.

There it is! Out of the corner of my eye, the large letters spell out the one name that can solve my hunger.

Jimmy John’s.

* * *
The celebration was cut short. Lesnar still had a feast; six different Jimmy John sandwiches were crafted specifically for his consumption. The total cost to Lesnar was an even zero dollars and zero cent as a result of the real Brock Lesnar’s sponsorship with the Jimmy John’s brand.

The meal was accompanied by an orchestra of unrelated sounds. The loud music blasting inside the restaurant, the ravenous chewing of sandwiches, various customers ordering their meals, and the typical sounds of sirens and emergency vehicles that typically race down the streets of Philadelphia.

One integral sound went unnoticed. A group of five men sitting in a black van, parked on the street near the rear entrance of the restaurant, relayed messages via radio telecommunications to their associates in the Counter Intelligence Agency. Across the street from the front entrance of Jimmy John’s were two police cars staffed with a total of five officers. They were directed by the CIA to provide assistance in containing their target in the small area in front of the store, assuming Brock exited the front door.

The thought of a government abduction never crossed the clone’s mind. Instead, he contemplated the means that the Lizard People would take to recapture and euthanize him. He also wondered how thoroughly they were willing to dig through the crammed urban housing in North Philadelphia. As a result, Lesnar inevitably exited the back entrance of the restaurant towards the residential buildings.

Moments later, Lesnar was tranquilized, with a dosage that would take out a medium sized gorilla, and transported into the black van. The police officer support was unneeded.

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