The Enthusiasts

37

"I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. 'Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but they whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves their conduct, will pursue their principles unto death." – Leonardo da Vinci

He's Australian! The accent! Something powerful transpired deep within Sasha's reproductive organs following the striking man's foreign greeting to her. Sasha didn't speak during her extraction as the gorgeous Aussie appeared enchanted by her as well, his pulse racing and mind swelling with battle-fueled-adrenaline and marginal-victory-endorphins. The caravan expelled close to twenty members of an assembly who appeared somehow prepared, organized, and astute with a baffling level of execution to handle a situation such as this. To Sasha, the weight and horror of it all was swept neatly under the rug in what felt like an eternity that still wasn't quite long enough as she stared into her rescuer's eyes. She didn't know him, but she knew he was a good man, a very good man who had saved her life, and although she'd lost a lot in that holding chamber, she hadn't lost Emerson or herself, and for that she could never thank him enough. Heaven and Hell are only inches apart, she thought. She spoke no words, but she did smile incessantly at the band of brothers deploying from the caravan. Two men bounced out behind the smiling Aussie, hustling to dismantle the holding chairs keeping Sasha and Emerson in place.

Emerson quickly realized the incredible fortune he had been blessed with. He wasted no time with a front of questions as the Australian leader approached him. "Virtuous?" Emerson inquired, already positive he could be no one else but the man he only knew through underground channels as his online alias: Virtuous Anarchy.

The man spoke: "In the flesh, mate." He laughed behind his creased smile. "You can know me as Gladstone now though."

"Gladstone, I'm Emerson... Emerson Myshkin, and this is Sasha," Emerson stated while nodding to the seat next to him, "and that big galoot over in the corner is Teddy... You saved our lives... How did you know we were here?"

"I got your message."

Emerson thought for a moment. The message he sent three days ago had informed Gladstone that they were headed to 'The Jewel of the Desert.' "I said we were going to Las Vegas... That's where we were supposed to be headed... I used the phrase 'Jewel of the Desert,'" Emerson stated, still attempting to put together everything that had just happened. He was not ready to accept any losses just yet.

Gladstone stood tall and stiff as a board, scratching his head with a side-gazing look of serendipity. His thick head of wavy, brown hair moving under his own power was a thing of beauty to Sasha. She was debating whether she should scream a little as she jumped up into his arms, or if she'd go in slowly and press her body against his for a longer, more savory embrace the moment she was released.

"Huh, I always thought they called Salt Lake City the 'Jewel of the Desert.' I thought it had something to do with rocks or something. Well, that's really coincidental then: you weren't even tellin' me to come 'ere, but I did anyways." Gladstone contemplated the odd fate for a moment before he replied... "Giv'er, mate!"

"Please, stop saying that..." another man with an Australian accent who was loosening Sasha's last leg strap pleaded with him. It turned out that Gladstone had been saying, "Giv'er, mate!" ever since he saw his first American billboard which read "When Life Gets Rough, You Gotta GIV'ER!" A custom Baja-style racing truck was depicted soaring through the air, launching over a desert sand dune underneath the bold print that caught his eye.

Sasha was finally released and couldn't get out of the chair fast enough. She quickly thanked the young, unnamed subordinate who had unshackled her, and then she rushed toward the Tall Handsome Man in front of her. Her hands ran down the back of his thin white, clingy T-shirt. She soaked in all the hunky goodness with her entire being. Eventually, she snuck out the words "Thank you" as she began to weep into his shirt. As Gladstone set his arms around her smaller frame she began heaving, crying heavier and louder as he did. She tried to calm herself down but seemed unable to. Yet another emotional episode from the sworn-to-evil killing machine. Finally, she gained control of herself after demanding that her senses take in all the hunky steaminess that stood before her. The rapture of hotness she found herself caught in was finally enough to subdue the pesky mental collapse she was experiencing. After a minute, she was no longer hyperventilating and she was able to breath in the intoxicating Australian hotness in its full glory.