I am smoking a cigarette in the alleyway beside my apartment complex when a petite white van pulls up beside me. The doors open in a blur, and a pair of strong hands pull me inside. A big, burly man proceeds to pull a black cloth bag on my head and then punches me right on my left cheekbone. I hear him then yelp in pain. Amateur.

The van speeds off, and though the bag does a fine job of muffling voices, I still hear the man who (I assume) punched me continue to wince in pain. I think the driver is berating him. I join in and say: “You should really aim for the jaw when you’re punching someone.”

“Shut up!” Two voices in unison say.

“Now, now, I understand your anger, but that only proves my point. If you’d punched me in the nose, I wouldn’t be talking right now. So, see, you should’ve just punched my jaw, dislocated it, and I wouldn’t be wiser.”

I stop talking, and so does the production of any noise from inside the van. All I hear is the rough hum of the engine and the wheels kissing what feels like asphalt. We must be on the main road now. I ask them as such. They don’t reply.

“Come on, guys. I can’t see anything because of this black bag, so the least you can do is talk to me.”

“Shut up!” Two voices in unison say.

“Fine, fine, I won’t talk. But, like, let me ask the basics. Why are you doing this? Why me? And all that jazz.”

The puncher (I think) replies: “You pissed off the wrong people.” He sounds confident. Maybe because I asked questions that stuck to the typical kidnapping script? I don’t know.

“That doesn’t sound like me,” I reply. “Oh, no, wait. Was it Olinda?”

He doesn’t respond. But I catch a hint in his breath.

“Oh God, it is, isn’t it? Damn, I thought he was kidding! Ugh, this is what you get for dating rich girls, man.”

“A-ha, he wasn’t a girl!” A voice a bit further off replies. The driver, I’m guessing.

“No, no, Olinda is the big brother of the girl in question. Let me guess, he ‘hired’ you guys to teach me a lesson? Dude, that’s hilarious!”

“Why?” Two voices ask.

“Well,” I oblige with a response. “It’s hilarious because I dumped the girl. We’d dated for a couple of years, and we were on and off for the last one. At the end of it, I was just done, you know?”

The van is now jolting a little. I think we’ve gotten off the main road and into a rockier path. That’s strange. I don’t think we’ve moved that far from my apartment complex. But hey, I got a bag on my head.

“Olinda must’ve set you up for this. He did say he knew thugs, but I thought he was just an over-eager Rap fan. Color me surprised.”

“We’re going to teach you a lesson, alright,” the puncher says.

“I don’t know, man. I highly doubt your punching abilities.”

“How dare you?” He punches me again. This time, in the gut. It’s powerful, but the way the van’s moving he’s not able to get the adequate footing to make it really hurt. I tell him as such.

“Now, I’m not a boxer, but everyone knows that the true power of a punch comes from a swing of the hips. Which then, in turn, comes from you having a good centre of gravity. You don’t either right now, so I suggest you chill briefly.”

I can hear the driver mumbling again. I pick up a defeated tone.

“Hey, driver, how about you and this guy switch places? Maybe you’ll be better at this than him.”

The driver laughs.

“How dare you?” The puncher replies.

“He’s right,” the driver shouts back. Maybe I’ll park the car, and we can switch places so I can try to do your job right.”

Another couple of minutes of silence. It hangs heavy. “You know I can’t drive,” the puncher says finally.

I lose it.

I start laughing like I’ve just heard the funniest joke of all time because I think I have. “You can’t drive? In this day and age? My guy, you’re a terrible thug.”

The puncher jumps on top of me and starts hitting me with a barrage of punches, but again, there’s no power behind them because we’re moving so much. Plus, he’s flustered. The sound of the driver laughing is more powerful than these weak punches.

A speed bump, pothole, or whatever appears, and the van slightly jumps. Now, suddenly, I’m on top of the puncher, and I take this chance to pull the bag off. I look down and see a stocky, short man. Admittedly he has a fair bit of muscles. He blocks his head, expecting punches, but I just sit back.

I look to the front at the driver, and he’s a lot younger looking than I thought he’d be. He looks back at me and somehow seems to realise what I’m thinking and lowers his head for what seems to be a shame.

“You guys are a lot younger and more amateurish than I figured. Are you really thugs?”

“Yes!” Their voices in unison say. I don’t buy it.

I reach into my pocket. God bless zippers, by the way. Thankfully, my pack of cigarettes is still there and uncrushed. Oh no, I don’t have a lighter.

“Any of you got a light?”

The puncher looks at me dumbfounded while the driver reaches into the glove compartment and pulls one out. I light it once I move back to where I’m sitting.

“You know, honestly, I was a bit bored today. You guys really switched things up for me. Thanks!”

I light my cigarette and look outside. Oh, we’re not that far from my place. Maybe I can get them to take me back if I ask nicely. They continue to stare at me as I take a deep puff in and marvel at how dusty the roads outside the ring road are.