WHAT'S IN THE BAG!?

A brown paper bag was set right in front of all the new initiators, including myself. Our host, wearing a stereotypical lab-coat, dark safety glasses, and a mask over their mouth, placed it gently down on the small table in the center of the room. Standing about 5 feet 9 inches tall, with a slender physique, suggesting to me that this is a woman. There wasn’t a thud or crackle of sound made when the bag was placed on the smooth surface of the table. Odd!

“Your client who hired you all will be in shortly”, said our host. Sounded like a middle-aged woman. I was correct!

“Who is?”, came a soft voice to my immediate left.

Silence permeated the group. Each of us looking at our host and at each other.

The host looked at the speaker, and calmingly but with a slight irritation, said, “He is a great man. That is all you need to know.” And the hostess turned around and walked out of the only door in this room.

I looked at the guy to my left. He looked like a businessman. He had a suit and tie on. But he looked more muscular than the average suit. He looked Asian, Japanese most likely, with a tattoo of a Japanese saying. Probably works with the Yakuza. Those Japanese mobsters are always a pain to deal with.

“She doesn’t seem to like you,” I gibed at him. He turned and bore his eyes right into mine. The intensity would have frozen any normal person. I, however, found it amusing and smiled back at him.

“Damare, Gaijin!”, came his acidic retort.

I continued to chuckle under my breath.

I scanned the rest of the applicants. One man was a soldier, probably a marine. He had a USMC tattoo on his right wrist and a straight stance. Not even bothering with us, he stared straight at the bag, no movement in his eyes. His arm muscles bursting from his rolled-up sleeves suggest he was a foot soldier, a killer, like Rambo!

The guy sitting to his right, had a ski mask on, and had a leaner figure. He looks the smallest out of all the participants here. His eyes were shifting from one person to the next, No trust in them. He was hiding the rest of his face, but I could tell that he was an assassin or a spy. Probably from MI6 or some British intelligent agency. A union flag symbol on his vest gave that away, easy.

Finally, to my right, was a woman. Slender and fit, like those girls you see doing cross-training. She had her legs stretched out in front of her. She was probably at like 6 feet. A tall, white, blonde lady with bright blue eyes. A Russian mercenary was the vibe I got from her. She was beautiful, bit deadly. A name Ivy was etched across her black jacket. Poison Ivy? Fits the description of this gorgeous creature.

They all didn’t look to intimidating, but I knew each of them where a professional in their own country and in their own field of expertise.

“What are we here for?” came the Asian guy’s voice.

Everyone looked around, and then all looked at the brown paper bag sitting in the middle of the room.

The untold question was divulged by a voice.

“What do you think is inside it?”, came the marine’s gruffy, low voice.

There was a pause. Each person eyeing each other, sizing their ego. Seeing if anyone has the guts to look at it.

Finally, I could not take the wondering. I stood up, walked to the table, and investigated the bag.

For a heart stopping moment, everyone could be seen looking at me. I peeked in and saw…. nothing! We were all here for…Nothing!

We were all believing, from present company and the dark room, that this bag held something of importance to us. But I can see now, that, even in place of war, a brown paper bag can instill mystery and fear in the unknown. Even when the unknown is nothing.