Keshawn Obiajulu Washington exited the United flight from Newark Liberty airport to Stockholm, Sweden relaxed and ready for his adventure that he hoped would last for the entire time his employment kept him in Sweden. He had boarded the United Boeing 757 minutes before the first class door was closed. The flight departed on time at 5:20PM and would cross the Atlantic in eight hours and twenty minutes. Disregarding the cost of his first class ticket, he took his seat, sighed, and knew his six foot eight inch frame would not suffer in the least for leg room and basic creature comforts. The flight attendant took his lightweight coat and returned with a bottle of VOSS carbonated water which Keshawn requested as he stepped through the cabin door. He pulled the female end of his seatbelt and elongated the belt to its maximum. He snapped the male end into the female end, tucked the belt down between the side of his leg and the side of the first class seat, and began to sip his water. As he has done on every flight he has ever taken, he looked through the Sky Mall magazine and the airlines magazine knowing that as soon as the aircraft was pushed back from the gate, he would close his eyes. He was not scared of flying or dying. Keshawn preferred to sleep when he flew unless he had to read a dossier and/or a criminal's biopic based upon where he was headed. Tonight's flight would be quiet, unless the blonde blue-eyed flight attendant decided she wanted to add to or join the mile high club with him.
The flight was uneventful. Dinner was served, then snacks, and although he was entitled to a free set of headphones to watch the movie, Keshawn had slipped his Bowers & Wilkins C5 In-Ear Headphone jack into his iPhone 5 prior to takeoff, searched for his flying playlist, and tapped it to begin playing, albeit illegally because all electronic devices were supposed to be turned off. He knew better than to believe the bullshit put forth by the FAA and the airlines about electronic devices. If it were true that the devices interfered with the navigation electronics on the aircraft, he would have crashed and burned one of several hundreds of times. Keshawn was a seasoned flyer.
He followed the signs to Ground Transportation where he was met by a man holding a sign with his name. Smiling, he nodded signaling the individual that he did not have to go to the baggage carousel so they could depart immediately for his hotel. The drive from the airport to his hotel took thirty-five minutes. He checked in to the Hotel Rival and was immediately escorted to Suite 704 on the seventh floor of the hotel. The fifty square meter penthouse consisted of a bedroom with a king sized bed, a sitting room with armchairs and a couch, and the balcony has a view of Maria Square. After tipping the bellman, Keshawn tossed his small carryon suitcase on the bed, put his attaché case on the table, undressed, and stepped into the open-plan bathroom. He turned on the water, stepped into the shower, and washed the eight hour flight from his mind and body. The bath towels were huge, soft, and he wrapped one around his waist as he used a second to dry his face.
In his attaché case was the dossier he created on the person he had come to Stockholm, Sweden to see, but that was actually secondary to his new position in the Embassy of the United States. Keshawn Obiajulu Washington asked for and received a transfer to Stockholm after spending five years aiding the CIA in and around the slums in various Middle Eastern cities. His superiors did not know exactly why he chose Sweden, but they felt he deserved the transfer and posting to an ally that posed an infinitesimally small possibility of danger. His background included four years of schooling at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, four years in the Marine Corps where he was trained as a sniper, and accepting an offer to become a Federal Bureau of Investigation agent. The decision to enter the Marine Corps as an enlisted man was lost of the officer corps because he was and still is one very intelligent individual. When asked he always explained that he was born into poverty and worked his way up to and through MIT so he was not going to abandon his life as a worker to become an officer.
Keshawn sat in the sitting room, opened the dossier, and read for the umpteenth time the data on the individual he came to his new post two weeks early to engage in a private face-to-face conversation. As he read, he laughed. The spelling mistakes and the misuse of the English language only proved to Keshawn what loser this individual was. He looked at his watch and knew it was time for him to get dressed and make his way across Stockholm to the offices of the asshole that brought him to Sweden two weeks early. A decision had to be made, but since he was an active duty FBI Agent assigned to the American Embassy, he slipped is Sig Sauer P229.40 S&W off duty weapon onto his belt. The last thing Keshawn took was a small package that he had prepared before he left his home in Herndon, Virginia.
The offices were in a rundown four story building in the Bromma industrial area of Stockholm. The first floor atrium, if you could call it that, was dank, dirty, and dilapidated. He sought out the building directory and found that the individual's company was on the fourth floor. As he stepped away from the directory, he laughed thinking that his encounter with the owner would probably be very similar to the disgusting environment to where his offices are located. The elevator was small and rickety, but to his amazement, worked like a charm. He rose to the fourth floor, departed the elevator, and without any form of directions on the walls took a chance as to the direction he needed to go.
The offices of Nookie Star were the furthest from the elevator. The door was a typical office door with smoked glass and the name of the business stenciled in gold leaf. He knew by looking at the stencil that the owner had not paid good money because it was peeling from the door and part of one of the o's in Nookie was missing. He opened the door, stepped through the threshold, and was met with a single one room office. The room stretched to his left and right. The only windows for the entire office were to his right. In the center on the wall that faced the entry door was a dog eared, creased poster touting the website as a man's playground. To his right, he saw a single table the size of a large dinner table situated in front of the only windows. To the left, along the common wall with the next door office was a smaller table. Each table had a flat screen computer monitor, keyboard, and mouse. Otherwise, their tops were devoid of anything else, including a landline telephone. The office was not decorated nor was it pleasant to be in. The walls were painted an ugly green and the matching green linoleum floor was in need of a major cleaning or replacement. The only person in the office was sitting behind the smaller table.
"Ursäkta mig, är ägaren här? ( Excuse me, is the owner here? )" stated Keshawn in perfect Swedish.
"Får jag fråga vem du är? ( May I ask who you are? )" stated Marc, the owner's friend and only employee.
"Säkert, said Keyshawn, men jag kommer att använda mitt modersmål, engelska. ( Sure, but I am going to use my native language, English. )" He paused, waited for a reaction, and when none was offered, stated, "My name is Keyshawn Obiajulu Washington."
The employee had a look on his face that belied his outward calm. Marc wondered who this tall muscular individual was and why he was visiting the office. He asked with a heavy Swedish accent, "May I ask you what your business is with the owner?"
Keshawn did not take his lame guard dog attitude quietly. He stepped to the small table he was behind, put his ham hock hands on the edge, and said in a quiet but stern voice, "I'm here to see the owner. If he isn't here, then tell me when he'll arrive. If he stepped out to use the restroom, then say so; because, I'm about to pick you up, toss you across the room, over that other table, and through the window."
Flustered the employee stammered, "You wouldn't..."
With piercing eyes and a deep growl to his voice said, "Do not test me white boy."
Frightened, Marc stammered, "My employer j-j-just stepped o-o-out. He'll be here m-m-momentarily."
Keshawn stood, smiled, and said, "I'll wait. In fact, I'll sit in his seat because I don't see any other chairs."
Marc did not respond nor did he try to stop Keshawn from going behind his employer's desk and sitting in his chair.
Ten minutes after he sat down, the door to the office opened and in walked the owner of Nookie Star. He closed the door and immediately shouted, "Vem i helvete är du? ( Who the hell are you? )"
Keshawn Obiajulu Washington stood to his full height and replied in perfect Swedish, "Jag är din värsta mardröm jävla vita pojken. ( I am your worst fucking nightmare white boy. )"
"Get the hell out of my office!!!" cried Sebastian Enger in English with a heavy Swedish accent. His website is considered the worst xxx-rated pornographic site on the Internet. In fact its last financial worth was rated at a whopping $93.85.
"I don't think so," replied Keshawn. He stepped from behind the table and before the thin as a rail Enger could move, he had him by the throat pinned against the door. "I know who you are Sean or is it Sebastian. I know what you do for a living. And, I'm going to take my pound of revenge."
.... There is more of this story ...