Wednesday, November 13, 2013



18 CONTINUED 
 
He was thrown in a windowless, stone room. There was no light. A mouse, perhaps, scurried in the corner.
Something brushed his leg.
He knew not that there were twenty other men in twenty different cells, and that they would all be used and spit out, for various purposes and reasons.
His head hurt as the memory once again flooded his mind.
"Opening  the goddamn hatch. Target the corresponding section."
"Get out the fucking guns. This place isn't standing any longer. He might be in there."
The walls came down, shredded by the men with the guns; the bombs finished them off; more men with guns picked off the remaining survivors, all of them, or so they must have thought.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------




Chapter 2
More vaporized nicotine filled the air. He blew a circle of grey into the stanced air, slowly destroying every pigment of the expensive paintings someone gave him a while back, "Just In Case".
"It went very well, sir."
Another billow of smoke into the nighttime air. His name was Freddy Banksy, and he liked to smoke.
"They were all killed. Those responsible got away before the cops even got to their cars. It was a glorious drive-by, sir. Very impressive in your eyes, I hope."
The standing man leaned forward, almost bowing to the man behind the desk, with his legs kicked up on the fine-grained hand-made desk.
"Sit down."
The intonation of the Boss' voice made him very nervous to make gaze with the man who paid his check every week. The vapors of Freddy's nasty habit made the assistant choke; for fear of his life, he held it back.
The assistant's name was Smith.
"Do you see all of this?"
Smith nodded desperately. Perhaps he could sneak a telephone to his family--

(RESUME FROM NOTEBOOK 2 WITH UNPLOTTED EXPOSITION)
He pressed the red button on the desk, his feet up on it.
He looked out the window as he waited, his left hand nursing a cigar. He would have to get in with Mike later. Once he had a little something to take the usual edge off that he always seemed to get.
He blamed it on nerves, something in that water from across the world he always drank.
"How can I help you, sir?"
"Take me to the club. Bring the stretch."
"Yes, sir." The wingmen ran out of the Boss office to get the head of the garage to get the chauffeur to get the hired help to get the keys. It pulled up to the big man, with the car lift he installed a few days back. No, not him, it was the head of the upkeep, who got to the head of the residential upgrades, who got o the head contractor, who leased the job out to a few of his men.

No comments:

Post a Comment