Duo Perspectivae

Skeletons. Curse. Murders. Follow Tike Henezingson on her twisted journey with the worst friend ever. From the electric fence of the compound where she meets her father, to the exotic, hidden jungle of her friends' hideout, Tike must find a way to rid herself of her age-old curse. Will she survive? Will she become a murderer, just like her friends? And will she ever find a way to live happily with her whole family?


7. Bullets and Balloons

Tike Henezingson, Day 34 of My Diary.


I just slapped the President of America.

I felt my hand skim his face, seeing the left side squeeze against the right, and the right rejecting it. And I enjoyed it.

I just slapped the President of America.

I watched him as he recoiled from the contact, I cringed when his eyes stared at me with a dead glare, a dead, dead glare. And I enjoyed it.

I just slapped the President of America.

And I enjoyed it.


I couldn't stop myself thinking about it. I just slapped the President of America. And boy, did it feel good. I knew she'd hate me for hitting him out cold, but that wasn't my fault... I wasn't aware of my own strength in this new body. I could hear HQ going crazy in the background, checking my blood pressure, checking my health quota, checking my physical appearance, basically checking everything tatty and faffing around allot. I just slapped someone! It's not like I kille... I probably shouldn't use that word... It's very serious and people could think I wasn't joking... Whoops... Anyway, apparently, the previous owner enjoyed slapping people across the face. Which was understandable, I mean, the feeling of your own skin harsh against the victim is just... Wow... 


Anyway, I began to think about what I was going to say to him when he woke up.. I wasn't sure about Judas' Cradle, but the fact of getting the AMERICAN PRESIDENT naked for some information that I could easily retain from another guard, or hacking into the database again (Believe me, I tried when I was 10, and it was as easy as pi, I mean, come on, maths isn't that hard... Honest!). I racked my brain for other harmless (I'd like to keep my dignity, thanks) torture methods I could use. I wanted something painless, enjoyable (Who else gets the chance to severely torture the American President? I'm... I'm sorry... I just want to enjoy this moment... It's not everyday I get to beat up Presidents... I hope the next mission is in Britain) and most of all, efficient. I don't want to spend all this time for nothing! I thought back to when I was 18, and remembered the times my dad had leant over me and my Windows 9 touch-screen laptop, only to find I was hacking into the government database in an attempt to find out my GCSE results.


I stood and stared at the President. I thought back to what he had said. Would a Democrat really say that? That's the kind of thing my dad would say. My dad would say... My dad... No... No... It can't be... I tried to see behind the fake skin, the soft eyes and the sprawled figure on the blackberry-coloured carpet. I think... I think it's him... Obama would never, ever treat his guards with that kind of respect. Which means I didn't slap the President. I slapped my father. And somehow I enjoyed it. I decided my best shot was to get the information from him anyway, so I began to pull his unmoving body off from the carpet and onto the faux, black-red leather chair and tied his wrists to the chairs armrests using the leftover balloon string tight enough, I hoped, for him to not be able to move enough to hurt me and yet give me enough free reign to question him as my father and not as the fake American President.


As I tied the last of his feet down to the chairs stands, I watched and waited as my dad woke up from his extremely awkward slumber and stared at him wondering how I'd be able to get the information out of him.

"Damn Ms, that was a hard hit!" And, out of spite, I hit him again. Lighter though this time. "I'd like to have some teeth left in me by the time you're done here!" OK, I should probably stop hitting him until all his pearly teeth fall out. I just stared at him asking myself why he didn't tell me as soon as I walked in.

"So, Mr President, tell me. Who is Subject 16783?" Let's get back to business and finish off this god-damned mission before The Godmother gets worried about me. 

"How many times do I have to tell you dear, I won't tell you. Now go walk off back to the kitchen!" Wow. My dad just said that. To me. His daughter. Talk about a slip of the tongue.

"Some democrat you are." I could see the panic flush over his face, and he knew I was on to him.

"Also, Americans don't say dear much. They just don't. It's a British thing." Now THAT'S a slap in the face, metaphorically speaking, I didn't slap him again, (Although thinking back, I should have done for that sexist comment).


We carried on much like this for some time, him slipping up and hinted to me that he was my dad and not the President. I began to wonder when I was going to tell him that I knew what -who- he was. Friendly or cocky.. Friendly, cocky... So many choices... I remembered back to what an old teacher of mine had said when he had just told me he was a spy, before he carted me off to a special university for those training in the arts of staying unseen, merging with the everyday crowd of people, 'The split second it takes for you to think of a punchline, the same split second it takes for someone bad to hurt you.' The message echoed around the halls of my mind, filling the empty spaces between my brain and my hard, hard skull. I was stuck in some kind of... Mental breakdown for quite a while, deciding what to do, running through scenario after scenario in my head. Finally, I had decided to just man up and face the music.

"Dad. What do you want? Why did you mess up my mission?" The comforting sound of HQ stopped and listened. I could hear my own heart beating. Question after question raced through my head, and I dreaded the answer to almost all of them but one. What was he going to say? What would he say to my job? I'm sure... I hope... He knows it's me... Oh my, that would be so awkward if he didn't know it was me... I don't even want to think of it.


"Babe, I had no choice in the matter..." Right. He's definitely not Obama. Glad we got that cleared up, but since when did he call me 'Babe'? "Theodoric... You know him, old man, black, greased hair, massive fan of leather jackets and retro-themed sunglasses!" Oh. Him. Wait, he's here? Hah, sounds fun.

"Babe please, I know what you're thinki-" 

"No you don't! You've just interrupted my mission! I can't find Gorge! Theodoric is here! What the hell is Theo even doing here?!" I don't regret interrupting him. Not much. He would've just given me one of his famous life lectures and chuckled slightly at me calling the most stereotypical bad guy ever. Seriously, sign him, it'd save me lots of time. 

"Gorge is fine. He's safe. He's lucky. We have about 7.8 seconds before Theo's men get here, then we'll have a little chat outside." The fact that dad wouldn't tell me about Gorge really worried me. I calculated the time it would take to break and jump out of the window (I think the real Obama took the window key with him). I heard shots, and looked out the frosted window. Red splattered over it, covering the frosty figures outside. A full frontal attack? Really?

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