I'm Not Your Dog

“Well, fuck,” I thought to myself. The matter-of-fact way that the speaker had stated that I’d have my organs harvested, without so much as a split-second pause, ranked his threat as top tier in my book. On the one hand, maybe they were willing to give me a little leeway, with the whole “one week to comply” statement.

“Yeah, how about no. You see, black leather isn’t really my style, so I’m going to have to decline,” which was a total lie, but it seemed like the appropriate response at the time.

There was a pause before the voice came back on the speaker, “The timetable has been accelerated. You have three days to comply. Take the box and return to your room, Five.”

“Oh, now it’s three days? Sounds like you aren’t calling the shots, big guy. Why don’t you tell your masters to come down here and make me put on the collar?” I taunted as I flipped off the speaker, hoping that the camera was in the same spot, lest my insult be improperly aimed.

And, with that, I turned and walked back to my room, which was absolutely my choice, not theirs.