Exceptional Restaurant bombing and disappearance. Vanishing Act by Ric Myworld

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence. Throughout the room swirls a thick haze of cigarette smoke. Heavy spice scents mingle with the stench of overflowing ashtrays, stale beer, and coffee soaked carpet. Streams of old grease, speckled with flies, worm down the wall behind the grill. Typical of lunchtime, people pack the aisles waiting to order and for seats to come available. Customers wind out the doors and down the sidewalk. The restaurant’s regular patronage is often seventy-five to eighty percent Asian, and as the general-rule, lines move quickly and the food is tasty. Why else would anyone eat here? Today, worse than in previous visits, the atmosphere and clientele are more grungy and impatient. Out of place and overdressed, in walks a playboy-fantasy babe who would make the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models run and hide. Oblique eyes and soft, tanned facial features, framed by fringy raven hair that glistens under the overhead lights. Slim, yet shapely, her tight fitting dress shows every curve, firm full breasts, and the fitness of her muscle-rounded tush as she walks. The whole room is captivated in a frozen stare. The eyes of every man and woman locked onto her beauty and the images from beneath her clinging cardinal-red dress. Transfixed on her computer screen, she types in a fury, unaware of being the center of attention, or at least pretending not to notice. She squeezes her matching handbag and computer satchel between her ankles, while my vision fluctuates from there to the open space that tunnels under her less-than-mini skirt, well above her knees. She orders coffee and a dessert. I sit—mesmerized—not taking my eyes off her, for even a second. Her feet to her face, I search to find a blemish, but there are none. Intensely, I examine, scanning her image into my brain for safekeeping, and pray it doesn’t ignite. In a slow and deliberate way, she raises her head, staring from the corner of her eyes; she unveils her ability to see from all angles. Far from infrared raptor vision, but close enough to catch my eyeballing observations from the very beginning— lip licking facial expressions, which meant no disrespect—yet, undoubtedly exposed the vulgarity of my innermost thoughts. Her head turns back-and-forth, seemingly saying no . . . as she points her finger and shakes it at me, repeatedly, with a grin. Then, every time she looks up, she catches me again. Self-control gone haywire, I can’t stop watching—acting foolish, afraid that I might never see her again—daydreaming, about just maybe . . . . From then on, she intentionally turns her glamour and sexiness to perfect angles to give me up-close and personal views of her private parts. She relishes in me watching. In a masquerade of nonchalance, I dab the perspiration from my forehead. The intense heat of a coal stove blazes inside me, and whenever I look up at her, I salivate with the hunger of a predator. Leaning over the table, she exposes a faint glimpse of her nearly black half-dollar sized nipples; then, a slight turn and spread of perfect legs reveals a reflected glare-lit path to her groomed kitty.  In walks a tall, dark, Latin type in an olive-green suit. His hair heavily gelled, slicked straight back, looking as much out of place as she does. Eyes sparkling green as an emerald sea, accented by silver hoop earrings in both lobes. He pulls up a chair at the opposite end of the room and sits his cognac-colored case on the floor between case-matching woven canvas loafers. Facing the smoldering hottie in the red dress, he never seems to notice her; which I find strange, since no one else in the room can take their eyes off her. Of course, the contents of his and her bags must be important, as they clutch them tightly under the tables between their legs. Whether they hold documents, jewels, or maybe even dope or money, why should I care. I guess it's just human nature to be curious. It's time to harness my run-a-way imagination as I get up, saunter over to the register, and pay my check. Taking a left turn out the door and down the declined walk, I am still unable to take my eyes off her. Almost walking backwards, I gaze through the plate-glass window panels. She gets up to leave and I stop, not wanting to miss a single movement. The dark mysterious man eases over to where she stands, takes her by the hand, and they exit together. Neither bothers to pay. Their gait progresses from slow and leisurely to a brisk walk, and by mid-way across the street they break into a dead run. Her computer bag remains under the vacated table. I spin around and rush back toward the entrance, wanting to be the hero who retrieves it and receives the reward of her approval. Panting like a pooch, wagging my tail to hear her say, “Good boy,” as she pats me on the head. No sooner have I turned, I notice that he too has forgotten his attaché. How odd, he leaves the case, yet remembers his phone; and stranger still, he carries it in his hand. His actions reek of something wrong and sensing imminent danger, I begin to beat on the glass, yelling at the top of my lungs, "RUN, RUN . . . GET OUT, NOW,” then, in desperation, I break into a sprint to get across the roadway to safety. It is too late. A giant explosion erupts, sending a huge ball of flames that engulf everything within four city blocks, me included. Body parts and pieces litter the street, strewn up and down as trash in the park. Smoke and a mist of ash fill the air and chunks of burning buildings clutter the street and sidewalks. Horrific shooting pains generate from deep inside my ears and blood trickles down my jawbone as I wince and twitch. Riddled with slivers of glass, battered and bruised with my clothes torn and melted to my sizzling skin, I still appear to be one of the luckiest. The poor soul lying but only a few feet from me writhes in agony, open wounds of his bleeding mangled mass flops limbless on the asphalt.  People run in the streets—stomping me as they pass—emergency lights flash and illuminate those wailing in cries of pain. Then, all becomes silent. I go from hearing the faintest moans, to nothing. ***** I wake up blurry eyed, looking around to find that I'm in a hospital room, attached to machines and bottles; and after a quick onceover, I'm releaved to be in one piece. Then, standing above my head, just out of sight, a deep foreign-accented voice speaks. “Good Morning, Sir. How are you feeling?” “I’ve been better.” The response was struggled but comprehensible. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m detective Mansour, Ayden Mansour, and I’d like to have a few words with you about your version of the accident.” “Well, I guess a no thank you or not right now would be out of the question, far as you’re concerned? So, ask away. But, let’s get one thing straight before we start, detective . . . there was no accident. ” “What are you saying, sir? Are you trying to tell me that the explosion was caused by something other than the concentration of gas from the leaking lines under the floor?” “Detective, I don’t know about the leaks below, inside, or anywhere else, but I do know what I saw.” “Whoa, slow down just a minute . . . first, let’s start with your name . . . and then, you can fill me in . . . .” “My name is Trevor Lowry.” “Okay, Mr. Lowry . . . now, tell me your story.” “Well . . . there was a man and a woman. The man could be about any nationality. Dark hair, skin, and deep-set eyes, and who knows . . . his pastel-green eyes could be contacts. "The woman has a mixed-oriental look, but with darker skin . . . or heavily tanned. She came in the restaurant first, then he arrived about thirty minutes later. "They sat at different tables. And, as both stood to leave, they appeared hurried as they forgot their cases under the chairs where they were seated. When they started running hand in hand across the street, I screamed in a panic trying to get everyone's attention. "But it was too late. The ground shook, and the blast knocked me unconscious . . . but for how long, I don’t know. I awoke to the aftermath. However, it wasn’t long before I passed out again.”  “Well, sir, you can ease your mind . . . although, the actual report hasn’t been released, the true culprit appears to be a faulty gas coupling. The final ruling won't be ready for weeks, but for now anyway, it looks like an accident." “But officer, it wasn’t an accident; I’m telling you . . . Listen--I watched the slaughter unfold from the beginning.” “Sir, I'm just here to take your statment. Hold on--for a minute . . . Let me ask you, sir . . .” With a funny look on his face, he hesitates and looks out into the hallway, then, continues, “Has anyone else been in to talk with you yet?” “No sir, you are the first person that I’ve seen . . . other than nurses, I mean.” He just stood there for a moment, before turning to talk with a nurse who walks into the room. His broad shoulders block the view of the nurse’s face; but I can see her using a syringe to inject something into the I. V. line. Possibly a painkiller or some sort of nutrients. Last drop dispensed, she pulls out the needle, recaps the syringe, and inserts it into a Sharps hazardous-waste container. Then, she removes the disposable gloves and throws them into the wastebasket. ***** From this point on, all information is strictly police speculation, accumulated from a combination of audio-video surveillance and added notes from the above two sections. Police File Notes and Video remarks: The nurse turned to face Mr. Lowry with an eerie, unpleasant smile, and at that exact moment, the supposed officer removed his hat. (Video descriptions) An expression of sheer panic on his face, Lowry appeared to recognize the intruders, whom we assume to be the terrorist bombers responsible for the massacre. (Video descriptions) At this point, video monitors froze without catching clear facial views of the presumed assailants. Traces of Midazolam and Hydromorphone, found in the patient's pick line, causes those injected to chill, grow faint, dizzy, gasp for breath and tremble before falling unconscious. In small amounts, this medical cocktail renders a recipient comatose within seconds and dead within minutes. Preliminary results show detonation occured simultaniously on the main floor and in the basement of the restaurant. The two officers stationed outside the room saw no one enter or leave the room during this time. However, when Mr. Lowry’s regular nurse returned, within a seven-minute time span, Trevor Lowry was gone, in a Vanishing Act, and there were no signs of the impersonators.   Recognized

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