Unhinged

Time for murder

It'd been about an hour since Antonio and Sergio left.

Not gonna lie, I was getting kind of nervous. Shouldn't someone have been here, to check that I hadn't escaped? I poked my head out the door, looking both ways down the deserted hallway.

Spy mode activated.

I tip-toed out of my room, and almost immediately tripped over a loose floorboard. Luckily, I played it off by turning my fall into a well executed roll. Not a cool somersault, just me rolling along the hall like someone would roll down a hill.

I needed help.

I made it a few rolls before I stopped, realizing that such a fancy house probably shouldn't have a loose floorboard. I started rolling back until I got to the place I tripped, pushing myself up onto my knees to inspect it. Under closer observation it seemed to be a handle. I stood up and pulled on the wood, trying to figure out what it was hiding.

Come on, you can do it, lift with your legs.

It suddenly popped open, causing me to stumble back, and I righted myself, peering inside. The staircase was dark, looking like it led to a dusty basement, and I could see a faint light at the end of the wooden stairs.

I crept down, hearing muffled voices coming from somewhere below.

"What do you mean you don't speak Russian?"

"Well I don't see you trying either!"

It sounded like Antonio and Sergio yelling at each other.

"The only person I can think of that speaks fluent Russian is Tom, but he's all the way in California."

That reminds me, I still have no idea where I am.

"Well great. How are we supposed to get the information now?"

"I don't know, I was going to ask you!"

I sighed, before stepping into the room. It was small and made almost entirely of concrete, with a single florescent light bulb hanging from the ceiling. I was getting Hollywood vibes. A man sat in the middle of the room, tied down to a chair that had a pool of blood underneath.

I assumed it was his.

"What are you doing here?" Antonio seethed, turning his glare on me. He glares a lot.

Sergio was leaning against the wall in the corner, a knife held casually in his hand, red blood dripping off its point.

I screamed.

"Merda. This is why I wanted you to stay where you-" 

(Translation: Shit)

"IS THAT A POPCORN CEILING?" I yelled at him, my eyes transfixed upwards.

He stared at me, as though I'd lost my mind, and maybe I had. But all I could think about was how hideous the ceiling was.

"Che dialovo. Yes, but-" 

(Translation: What the hell)

"Dear Lord, I can't believe you two, I mean you're both filthy rich, but popcorn ceilings? Really? Mafia bosses, and you choose that as the interior for your torture chamber? No wonder that man is so scared, he's probably inhaling asbestos fibers!" I finished my little rant, glaring at both of them. 

They stared at me looking very confused and slightly concerned. Sergio spoke first.

"So are you just going to ignore the bleeding guy?"