Don't recognize the number? Don't answer the phone!
Colonel Klink’s Caper
So, here I stand in the northwest corner of this dank and dilapidated warehouse, as instructed. I have been standing here for over two hours waiting for the phone to ring for my next instruction.
“Come on already!” My voice echoes in the cavernous space.
My legs are cramping, and I have to pee. I would sit if I could find a chair. I can’t park myself on the floor because it is filthy and, more importantly, I would not be able to get up.
“I drive all the way over here!” I add. “And for what? Because you threatened me?”
That’s a yes.
The mystery man dialed my number this morning while I was eating my Honey Nut Cheerios. I made the mistake of responding to a number I didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” I said, innocently enough.
“You know what you did!” this gruff and guttural voice said. “And you will pay.” He had a slight German accent like Colonel Klink from Hogan’s Heroes.
“What? Who is this? Is this a joke?”
I feel I responded as anyone would who didn’t know what in the hell was going on. Did what? To who--whom? Why would I? Gees!
And that’s when Klink went off on me with a two-minute Hitler-like tirade. After which I was given directions to this abandoned warehouse.
Footsteps! From across the dark expanse. I pick up a rock that lay within two feet of me, right below a broken window. Thank goodness for vandals.
The footsteps stop!
The Gestapo’s voice echoes across the distance. “I’m sorry. Really. I called the wrong number. You are free to go. But keep your mouth shut!”
The footsteps retreat; the door slams.
I wonder if my Cheerios are too soggy to eat.