Taylor put his clothes back on and waited in a well outfitted room. It was far posher than any doctor’s office he’d ever been in and he wasn’t sure why he’d been given a physical, much less one more thorough than any he’d ever had before.
When they’d called Taylor in, he’d assumed they were concerned with drug use. Guys like him who looked like he did were often treated with suspicion. Maybe it was his tattoos or his shaved head. It was fine. Taylor had nothing to hide. Sure, he liked a good time, but that was usually limited to a glass of nice scotch and a good book. Often, he listened to music, too, and perhaps it was his tastes in this regard that had raised his employer’s suspicions. He liked flashy guitars and loud drums, artists who perhaps were guilty of the sins he felt he was being accused of.
Whatever. Taylor could take it. He sat in a chair that appeared to be several centuries old. Late Baroque, he thought, admiring the ornate carvings on the legs and arms. They were nearly as complex as the skull and flame tattoos on his forearms, artwork of which he was particularly proud. The ink had taken time and money to accrue, but he didn’t have much else to spend money on. No wife or kids. Taylor liked this freedom. It fit his ethos.
The heavy, oak doors on the other side of the room opened and the frail form of a man in a wheelchair rolled in. The man thanked his helper, who dutifully exited, closing the doors behind him.
“Taylor Albright,” the man intoned, his voice aged
