Kitty Wittgenstein and the Sinister Society of Southpaws (1.1)

CHAPTER ONE

In which a massage is less relaxing than hoped, Kitty is thought to be too self-absorbed and personal odour is a factor

1.1 Gotta Get A Massage To You

The worst part of a massage is that moment when your masseur is attacked by four hi-tech thugs who plan to kidnap him. No amount of aromatherapy will soothe that particular environment.

I’m Kitty Wittgenstein. I’m a supermodel philosopher. This is the astonishing tale of the Sinister Society of Southpaws.

I first became aware of the attack when a gloved hand grabbed the back of my neck. The hand pushed my head down hard into the massage table head-hole. Akira had just finished working on my shoulders. I’d been aware of him turning away to re-oil his hands. The hand that had returned was not his. For one thing, the glove. For another, the pinning of my head. Akira can be rough at times. Pounding my muscles into serenity sometimes calls for that. He has yet, however, to lock my head into immobility.

I peered through the hole. What was happening? At the edge, I could see pairs of extra boots. They were running around the table. Directly in front of me, I saw more boots. This pair belonged to the one holding me down. I breathed in his deodorant.

Mmm. Musky.

There was talk.

“There is a woman in the room. Repeat: a woman in the room.”

I could hear sounds of scuffling. But I heard no sounds from Akira. No cries for help. Nothing. I considered my options. The musky man in front of me had not pinned my arms. Just my head. I could reach out and throw some kind of punch at him. Not a course of action likely to lead anywhere, however. At best, Musky might move to the side of the table and pin my arms as well.

More talk: “Understood”

Instead, I reached under the table and unlocked its front legs. They collapsed, sending the front half of the table crashing down. I followed it. Musky lost his balance and stumbled forward. I completed my drop with a somersault and follow-through kick to his face.

He crashed back into the wall. I got to my feet. I turned around to survey the situation. Akira was held by two men in military battle suits. A third was pulling a blanket from his armour. Akira was trying to yell. I could see that. I just couldn’t hear it. Not a single sound was coming from his mouth. The men turned to look at me. As is so often the case in massage table combat, my towel had fallen off. They were all getting quite the view of my nakedness. Cheap thrill for the bad guys, I suppose.

“It’s Wittgenstein,” said one of the soldiers into his microphone. “Repeat: Wittgenstein.”

Akira continued to yell. Still no sound came out. His silence made me turn. Just to make sure Musky hadn’t got back up. He hadn’t. I turned back to the battle-suited men.

Time to assess my options once more.

“Understood,” said the talkative soldier.

Something hit me hard on the back of my head. I froze. Literally. I was completely immobile. I saw the trio of military battle suits cover Akira in the blanket. A brief pause. And then everybody turned invisible.

And I? I remained frozen in place.

(to be continued)