Dave shook his head. It pounded even harder. He puffed in a couple of breaths each warming his face inside the bag. Plastic ties cut deeper into his fleshy wrists every time he moved. Heart thudding, he pushed himself up into a sitting position the concrete hard and cold underneath him. It was a far cry from the comfort of his ergonomic swivel chair.

He swore to himself if he got out of this alive he’d never think his tiny cubicle was too restricting again.

The bag whisked away from his head. Dave pulled in a sharp breath of dank air. “Look if you guys want money all I have is a twenty in my right sock. I’ll do anything you want just let me go.”

The weaselly man with the wispy mustache and beaky nose smiled. It was the same smile he’d worn when he’d smashed a pistol against Dave’s head. “I’m so glad to hear that.” He tossed a thick file to the floor coffee stained receipts and handwritten notes spilled out. “We need you to fix this.”

Dave blinked. “What?”

“You are an accountant, aren’t you?” Grunted the weasel’s companion a broad fellow with the charm of a warthog and a face to match. “We specifically went to that place to find an accountant.”

The ‘place’ Warthog referred to was the accounting firm, Tax Right. Dave had just pulled up to the office when the gruesome duo accosted him.

Dave scratched the top of his balding head. “So, let me get this straight you need me to balance your books?”

Warthog and weasel nodded.

“Then you’ll let me go?”

The thugs nodded again.

Dave flipped through the folder. It really was a mess. He sighed. “Do you have a computer?”

The thugs looked at each other. “Ah, no,” Weasel clipped.

“Do you at least have a calculator?”

No response.

“An adding machine?”

“We’ve got this.” Warthog held up a wooden frame with little poles festooned with colored beads.

“An abacus? You’re kidding right?”

Weasel and Warthog shook their heads.

Dave sagged. “Fine. Let’s get started.”

Weasel cut the ties on Dave’s wrists and motioned for him to take a seat at a wobbly card table where a ledger book and pencil waited for him. He pulled out the first invoice. $2,000 dollars paid to a man called Dr. Dreadful for one canister of terror gas.

Dave rolled his shoulders and pulled out the next receipt. It was going to be a long day.