Dave’s stomach roared.

Weasel popped his head through the door. “Hey accountant, are you hungry?”

“I’m good,” Dave’s gut let out another banshee scream. Due to some gastrointestinal issues he hadn’t quite sorted out, yet his stomach never only gurgled or even rumbled quietly but made sure that everyone in a three-block perimeter knew full well it’s displeasure.  Dave supposed he should be glad that the other issue he had wasn’t making itself know at the moment.

Now Warthog’s ugly mug appeared in the doorway too. “It is after twelve, Steve. Maybe we should all take a break.”

Steve the Weasel checked his watch, a big gold number that looked ridiculous on his slim wrist. “Have you finished priming all the you-know-whats?”

Warthog nodded.

“Alright, lets break.”

“But Steve I’m pretty sure the number cruncher doesn’t have a lunch.”

“He can get something out of the vending machine.”

“You know the machine’s been broken for two weeks. Why don’t we take him out to that new barbecue joint? Their brisket is the best.” Warthog’s face took on a dreamy expression and Dave feared he might start drooling all over his camo jacket.

“Ugh. Last time we went there the waiter put lye in my sweet tea.”

“Ah, he was only getting you back for the anthrax letter you sent him after he called your sister a mash-up of-“

“Don’t say it unless you want me to send you a special surprise too.”

“No if we’re going out we’re going to my favorite place.”

Warthog groaned. “Man, you know I hate that place.”

“Would you rather stay here?”

“Fine, but can we make a few stops along the way?”

Weasel pursed his lips. “Fine.” He pulled a key ring out of his pocket. “Come on number cruncher, I’m driving.”

Dave lumbered from his chair. Leaving the absurd abacus and ludicrous invoices scattered across his wonky table. He’d only been working on the messed-up account for the Corporation of Evil for a couple of hours, but already he wanted to tear his hair out – the little he had left anyway. Any kind of break was welcome. A break where he could have the chance of escaping, or at least alerting the police to his abduction was even more welcome.

Steve the weasel’s car was not what Dave had expected. First of all, he’d expected it to actually be a car. What sat in front of him was one of those green, lawn maintenance carts with the smiling alligator on the side – Dave never understood why someone would want to associate a man-eating reptile with healthy grass.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dave muttered.

“I call shotgun!”

Dave rose an eyebrow. The cart was a four-wheeler with a bed attached to the back. There was no ‘shotgun’ unless Warthog wanted to squeeze behind Weasel on the short seat. If so he was welcome to it. Dave climbed into the bed.

Warthog climbed in beside him and pulled an impossibly long rifle from inside his jacket. Dave gaped. “What?” Warthog said. “I called shotgun.”

Weasel turned the key in the ignition. The cart sputtered to life.

Warthog pulled a scope from his breast pocket and attached it to his gun. “So, do you like salad?”

“Not particularly,” Dave grunted as the bed jars over a small divot, “but my doctor says I need to eat more greens and my wife has been enforcing his orders.”

“My doctor told me the same thing. Oh, hold on.” Warthog lifted the scope to his beady eye. “You’ll want to get down now number cruncher and maybe cover your ears.”

Warthog squeezed off two shots that left Dave’s ears ringing. Answering reports and the ting of bullets hitting metal answered Warthog’s call. “Punch it, Steve!” Warthog called.

Dave cowered. Forget escaping he was going to die.