I found myself at a motel to the south of the city. Its not immediately clear to me why I needed to stay at a motel when I was so close to home. Yet in my sense of the moment, there was a reason why I was here.
However the immediate purpose for my stay was to jog. A pair of girls were jogging up the road as I pulled into the site. They were both stunning blonde, of the type usually reserved for people of the Swedish persuasion. They had long hair, pulled tight in a pony tail. They were wearing non-descript white t-shirts and black socks. They almost looked like they were ready to play soccer, as they were wearing long socks, but that was only an appearance thing, and they were clearly just jogging for the exercise of it.
I checked into the motel, deposited my stuff in the room, then stepped out into the gravel parking lot. The two girls I had observed jogging as I pulled in were just finishing their last lap as I walked onto the gravel. We looked at each other, them as they ran the last fifty yards down the driveway, and I as I stood there deciding my course of action. The closer girl gave me a kind of shy smile as they trotted past me towards the room. It was a half-way hello, but at the same time nervous smile wondering what my intentions were.
Whatever my secondary purpose, I knew why I was standing there. I'd come for the run. So I stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, on the hard gravel road.
I had come to run here. I checked into the motel for a different reason, but why I was here in this moment was to run. In a way that I couldn't process, I was replicating what the two girls had just run. The first part was up a long, dead-straight driveway, which was far longer than there was any practical reason for it to be. Then it turned left at a T intersection, and up another hard-packed gravel road to the highway. Stop at that point, then return to the motel. This path was repeated five times.
In a disturbingly omniscient way, somehow I knew the footsteps the girls had placed on the gravel. I could see rocks among the gravel they had disturbed. Even within the moment I was unsettled about how I could know this.
I returned to the motel but instead of going to my room I was drawn to activity in the room the two blonde's had entered. There seemed to be a commotion. I walked over to see what was the problem.
Two guys burst out of the room. They were punk-looking, like you would envision from the movies two poor, low-level criminals might look like. Chasing behind them was a fat, older guy, struggling to put on his clothes. From amongst the fumble of clothes he pulled a pistol and began firing at the two punks.
Everyone jumped into cars and took off down the road. Everything was occurring at break-neck speed but there seemed to be a reason for all this urgency. The car chase ended in a maze of large concrete, monolithic buildings that it was easy imagine being government in origin. The two punks burst into one of the dozen buildings that all looked the same. They were carrying a manilla file folder with them that seemed to be the cause of all this panic.
The fat guy went into the building looking for the two punks. His gun was drawn. But it was all just a huge maze and he lost the trail. Now that his clothes were all on it was apparent from the medals on his chest that he was some kind of high-level military officer.
The fat man ended up on one of the upper floors, still looking for the two punks. But the punks got the drop on him and after throwing the manilla envelope down a floor vent, they ambushed him in a grey, nondescript room on an upper floor. There was a scuffle and in it the fat man lost his gun. Then he lost his life as one of the punks shot him in the chest. The two punks left him there and dove out a window.
The two punks had some ridiculous ability to not die while falling multiple floors. Incredibly they managed to stop their fall after several floors by hooking a string that appeared to have no more strength than that of yarn, on this tight netting that appeared to drape the entire front of the building. However when sirens came calling they jettisoned themselves from this screen and fell the rest of the way, many floors, like flying squirrels. Falling to the ground they rolled to their feet. Opening the nearby floor vent they retrieved their manilla envelope again.
Hoping on black motorcycles the pair sped off again. Somehow I knew it was back to the motel. They authorities were none the wiser.
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