Hi everyone, its been a few weeks. I compiled 9 words into this one to make up for lost time. This is not a continuation of the Cortez Case; instead I went for a change and decided to check in on a different personality from earlier 3 word Wednesdays. You can find this character in my January contribution entitled, "The Protection Amulet" and its sequel in February. Thanks for stopping by, and hope you enjoy.
“Wh… where am I?”
A lone candle centered on a circular wooden table provided the only light. Vague blues and greens of a Hawaiian-style shirt floated out of the darkness.
“Yoo ar Zon York, ar yoo not?” Teeth and eyeballs above the colorful shirt spoke. The dark face was still unclear as he took a seat across the table.
“What is meaning of this? Who are you?”
“Yoo can call me Dean. Now, yoo’ar Zon York?”
“John York, yes. Where are we?”
Dean wasn’t about to feign an apologetic tone. He had little tolerance for the humility expected by people of wealth. “Mista Zon York, I need ta ask yoo some questions. An’ I need yoo ta cooperate.”
“But I demand to know…” John pounded an unexpectedly small fist onto the table.
“Zon, time is short. Lissen to me. I need yoo ta retrace wat happened at the golf course.”
John swallowed and sighed before beginning. “Me and my business partner were on the fourteenth hole, I was three over par but still beating Greg. We were shooting onto the green, about 80 yards from the hole, when these guys came walking over to us. Jamaican guys, four of them. They started to hassle us. Started demanding money on the spot.” John grabbed at his throat, “Does my voice sound funny to you?”
“Pleez jus continue Zon. Wat happened next? Did yoo give dem money?”
“Well I looked back at Greg, the caddie had hit him over the head with the sand wedge. He put Greg in the cart and rode off. I tried to stop them but one of them had my arm and was taking my gold watch. Another one grabbed my left hand and they walked me off the course.”
“Do yoo recall anyzing about dem?”
“One had an afro. The others had short hair. Wait, one was bald. Got fuzzy at that point, one of them injected me with something. I think one responded to Trevor from another one of them… Trevor had the afro.”
“Was der any reezon foh Trevor an his men ta come affer yoo? Did yoo owe anyone money?”
“What are you implying?” John was alarmed and his pitch raised to that of a whining woman. “I am an honest man with good virtues! I am not a swindler or hustler! I made my living honestly! “
“Point taken Zon, jus’ tryin ta piece tagether a motive iz all. Pleez continue wit Trevor.”
John gazed to the candle flame, scrounging random memories from erased interims. “A car ride… then I was being pushed around… everything was spinning. An ATM machine… I remember… then another car ride… I was in the trunk. I was in a meadow, don’t know how I got there, they were making me dig…”
“Wat was neer zis meadow Zon?”
“I don’t recall… grass, trees, wait… there was a playground nearby. Looked like a schoolyard… far… in the distance.”
“Then wat?”
“That is all I remember.”
An awkward silence fell between John and his exotic interviewer. John squinted trying to make sense of Dean’s labyrinth tattoo across his right cheek. Dean got to his feet and leaned toward the candle, “Dat is all I haf foh questions Zon. I will blow out dis candle an when I do, yoo will return to where ya came. Thanks foh your cooperation Zon.”
John nodded. Dean’s next gesture left the room pitch black. When the light returned, Dean was across the room at a light switch. He strolled across the room to the frazzled woman sitting at the table. She looked around confusedly, “What happened? Did it work?”
“Can yoo tell me yoh name ma’am?”
“Allison York.”
“Yes Mrs. York,” Dean revealed a recorder from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt, “We made contact wit yoh husband.”
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
El Moco (three word Wednesday - hidden, noble, roam)
More from The Cortez Case. This one is a continuation from the past entry "Maid In Columbia." Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!
DING DONG.
A high pitched yapping from a toy sized dog approached the backside of the grand oak door.
Knock. Knock. Knock. The slow and steady rhythm mimicked the percussion of Fog Hat’s Slow Ride. A distant whine summoned the maid unsuccessfully. The stomping tantrum of a teenager grew closer. An impatient diva restraining her black poodle appeared through the opening. She glared disgustedly at the slob on her front stairs. A Brazilian man with a beer gut and a cologne resembling tuna smiled back at her. She recognized that slimy receding hairline and scruffy face instantly. She cinched her nose with her free hand.
“Pe Pe,” she broadcasted behind her in a nasal tone, “El Booger is here.”
He stepped into the foyer of the Cortez mansion. This place never ceased to amaze him. Marble columns and dark wood side tables complimented the Incan relics displayed on them, giving the home a museum feel. The well groomed foliage in the backyard rolled downward to meet the Atlantic. This place was fit for a noble; and his boss certainly was a noble of the crime world. Sierra roamed away silently, leaving him waiting for the scurried tardy arrival of the maid.
“Allo Monsieur Moco,” she greeted with clearly feigned manners.
He grumbled in dissatisfaction, “Bah, no French. It is ‘Oy Senhor Moco’ where I am from. Please show me you are not a stupid bitch and use the right language next time.”
“You are right Senhor Moco, je regrette.” She beamed a smile that could not be more fabricated. She wanted to kill Moco ever since she had met him. He was as chauvinistic as he was odious, but that was not the worst of it. She had no idea just how terrible his personal hygiene habits were until she discovered a hidden remnant crusted to the underside of a patio table after one of his recent visits. It was no surprise he earned the sobriquet ‘Moco,’ Portugese for mucus. He had squeezed her ass several times that same visit. Who knows where else those fingers had been. She had to shroud true feelings, for it was no secret this scumbag was Cortez’ right hand man.
“Somezeen to drink?” She thought, Arsenic perhaps?
“Caipirinha, extra lime,” he patted her behind as she departed for the kitchen. Saw that coming. “Right away Senhor. Monsieur Cortez ees on zee patio.”
Moco strolled through the home with hands behind him. A tropical autumn breeze met his face as he opened the French door to the patio. The man on the patio stared through reading glasses at a laptop. He stroked his goatee, fixated on the screen.
“Oy Moco. Come, sit. Just finishing up here.”
“Oy sir,” Moco sat opposite his boss.
“What is the report?”
“We got three more from Spain over the weekend. Just spoke to Carlos, we have two more on the way from the States. One of them is Thomas’ daughter.”
“Raul Thomas is out of the way,” Santino spoke with disinterest. “Totals, Moco. I need totals.”
“Dúzia, sir. One dozen.” Moco sought a response in Santino’s stoic face, still glued to the activity of the laptop monitor. “Doing some bookkeeping?” Moco finally burst with curiosity.
“Haven’t I taught you anything? What do I always say…”
Moco swallowed hard, “Asking questions will get you killed.” He knew that Santino trusted him, but Santino’s trust had been shattered in the past. Moco would not leave the mansion alive if Santino commanded it. Still refusing to look at Moco, Santino squinted in contemplation, “Mahjong.”
“Que?”
“I said Mahjong. Love Mahjong.”
The maid arrived with a clear drink in a short glass, crushed lime beneath a surface of ice cubes. He sipped the beverage before continuing, the maid retreating through the French doors. “Policia searched my car yesterday. No drugs found. Shoulda seen ‘em, they were pissed.”
“They think we are amateurs. Drug lords,” Santino chuckled, “Every wannabe crime lord on the Columbian coast has their hands in that market. Too predictable, too much supply, too easy to track these days.”
“You are a wise businessman”, Moco commented, “We should make some good money this weekend.”
“When is Carlos arriving?”
“This evening.”
“Good. See to it our new assets get safely to the winery,” Santino continued to click his wireless mouse.
“I will sir.”
“Very well. Keep security tight, we don’t need complications this close to the auction.”
“Si Senor.”
The maid, just inside the French doors, quietly departed. She climbed the stairs in the foyer and travelled to the far side of the house, the master’s chamber. She retrieved her unnoticeable phone in her garter belt and pressed a fast dial. The phone rang several times.
“What are you doing?” The teenage diva in the doorway folded her arms.
DING DONG.
A high pitched yapping from a toy sized dog approached the backside of the grand oak door.
Knock. Knock. Knock. The slow and steady rhythm mimicked the percussion of Fog Hat’s Slow Ride. A distant whine summoned the maid unsuccessfully. The stomping tantrum of a teenager grew closer. An impatient diva restraining her black poodle appeared through the opening. She glared disgustedly at the slob on her front stairs. A Brazilian man with a beer gut and a cologne resembling tuna smiled back at her. She recognized that slimy receding hairline and scruffy face instantly. She cinched her nose with her free hand.
“Pe Pe,” she broadcasted behind her in a nasal tone, “El Booger is here.”
He stepped into the foyer of the Cortez mansion. This place never ceased to amaze him. Marble columns and dark wood side tables complimented the Incan relics displayed on them, giving the home a museum feel. The well groomed foliage in the backyard rolled downward to meet the Atlantic. This place was fit for a noble; and his boss certainly was a noble of the crime world. Sierra roamed away silently, leaving him waiting for the scurried tardy arrival of the maid.
“Allo Monsieur Moco,” she greeted with clearly feigned manners.
He grumbled in dissatisfaction, “Bah, no French. It is ‘Oy Senhor Moco’ where I am from. Please show me you are not a stupid bitch and use the right language next time.”
“You are right Senhor Moco, je regrette.” She beamed a smile that could not be more fabricated. She wanted to kill Moco ever since she had met him. He was as chauvinistic as he was odious, but that was not the worst of it. She had no idea just how terrible his personal hygiene habits were until she discovered a hidden remnant crusted to the underside of a patio table after one of his recent visits. It was no surprise he earned the sobriquet ‘Moco,’ Portugese for mucus. He had squeezed her ass several times that same visit. Who knows where else those fingers had been. She had to shroud true feelings, for it was no secret this scumbag was Cortez’ right hand man.
“Somezeen to drink?” She thought, Arsenic perhaps?
“Caipirinha, extra lime,” he patted her behind as she departed for the kitchen. Saw that coming. “Right away Senhor. Monsieur Cortez ees on zee patio.”
Moco strolled through the home with hands behind him. A tropical autumn breeze met his face as he opened the French door to the patio. The man on the patio stared through reading glasses at a laptop. He stroked his goatee, fixated on the screen.
“Oy Moco. Come, sit. Just finishing up here.”
“Oy sir,” Moco sat opposite his boss.
“What is the report?”
“We got three more from Spain over the weekend. Just spoke to Carlos, we have two more on the way from the States. One of them is Thomas’ daughter.”
“Raul Thomas is out of the way,” Santino spoke with disinterest. “Totals, Moco. I need totals.”
“Dúzia, sir. One dozen.” Moco sought a response in Santino’s stoic face, still glued to the activity of the laptop monitor. “Doing some bookkeeping?” Moco finally burst with curiosity.
“Haven’t I taught you anything? What do I always say…”
Moco swallowed hard, “Asking questions will get you killed.” He knew that Santino trusted him, but Santino’s trust had been shattered in the past. Moco would not leave the mansion alive if Santino commanded it. Still refusing to look at Moco, Santino squinted in contemplation, “Mahjong.”
“Que?”
“I said Mahjong. Love Mahjong.”
The maid arrived with a clear drink in a short glass, crushed lime beneath a surface of ice cubes. He sipped the beverage before continuing, the maid retreating through the French doors. “Policia searched my car yesterday. No drugs found. Shoulda seen ‘em, they were pissed.”
“They think we are amateurs. Drug lords,” Santino chuckled, “Every wannabe crime lord on the Columbian coast has their hands in that market. Too predictable, too much supply, too easy to track these days.”
“You are a wise businessman”, Moco commented, “We should make some good money this weekend.”
“When is Carlos arriving?”
“This evening.”
“Good. See to it our new assets get safely to the winery,” Santino continued to click his wireless mouse.
“I will sir.”
“Very well. Keep security tight, we don’t need complications this close to the auction.”
“Si Senor.”
The maid, just inside the French doors, quietly departed. She climbed the stairs in the foyer and travelled to the far side of the house, the master’s chamber. She retrieved her unnoticeable phone in her garter belt and pressed a fast dial. The phone rang several times.
“What are you doing?” The teenage diva in the doorway folded her arms.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Probation (three word Wednesday - budge, nimble, theory)
More from the ongoing series involving several recent 3ww installments. I have decided to label the series "The Cortez Case" until something a little flashier comes to mind ha ha. Enjoy!
The echo of casual, loitering footsteps against a concrete floor augmented with their approach. He lifted his head away from the fist supporting it. Stop here, stop here, he thought. The pudgy guard with the closely shaven Mohawk ceased shuffling before his cell. The guard paused silently, letting suspense grow in the prisoner.
Fuck you Lars. Are you here for me or not? Quit screwing around. The prisoner knew better not to prod the bulky guard. Lars would refuse to budge for several minutes if he thought it would unnerve his audience.
Lars the guard retrieved his keychain, “Raul Thomas. Come with me.”
“About time.”
Lars smirked, revealing the gap where a front tooth had been, “Your boyfriend is on the way. We got somethin’ for ya, a goin’ away present.”
Lars led Raul around the corner from the cell block and down a series of halls. He gripped Raul by the nape to halt him and rapped on a door.
“Enter,” a stern female voice responded from inside.
Lars turned the knob and used Raul’s face to push the door open, throwing him to the floor inside. The guards on either side of the woman in the lab coat rushed to restrain Raul. She circumnavigated Raul, pinned to the cold floor. Lars closed the door behind him, folded his arms, and displayed his stupid incomplete smile.
“Good day Monsieur Thomas. I understand you have an arrangement with some people in high places.” The brunette woman squatted and rolled up his right pant leg.
“Who are you?”
“My name is not important. Just call me Doctor if you need to call me anything.” She rolled down his sock. The “Doctor” revealed an electrical device attached to a brace, and commenced fastening it to his ankle.
“Some GPS I take it?” Raul expected this would be happening. They were not going to release a known criminal from their custody without some means of tracking.
“GPS, yes, we’ll go with your theory...” She wore a condescending smile as she clicked the ankle piece into a secure lock and removed a small luggage-sized key. She fixed her glasses and stood upright.
“Stand.”
The guards restraining Raul pulled him to his feet, then retreated to the Doctor.
“Fight.”
“What? Are you kidding?” Raul looked to the Doctor against the left wall. Lars’ flying fist connected with his exposed cheek. He tumbled backwards but bounced to his feet just as fast.
“Come on punk, I know you got fight in ya!” Lars taunted, stepping forward.
“Too bad for you, that’s the only hit you’re gonna land,” Raul assumed a defensive martial position.
“We’ll see ‘bout that,” Lars propelled a right hook… dodged. Raul sidestepped a left jab and elbowed the guard’s ear. Lars staggered to the side and growled. He spun and lunged, Raul chopped the guard in the throat. THWAM… how bad Raul wanted to… THWAM… hit this jackass of a guard… TWHAM… for so long. Underestimating his nimble opponent, the guard collapsed to the floor wheezing.
Raul turned his vision to the Doctor and her companions. The guards readied for his approach. The Doctor calmly removed a tiny remote from the pocket of her lab coat and pushed the middle of three buttons.
“GGGGGYYYYYYYAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!” An intense surge from Raul’s ankle paralyzed his leg and dropped him to the floor, “What the fuck? I cannot feel my leg!”
“No worries Monsieur Thomas. It is only temporary. You will be fine. Feeling should return within a few hours,” she gave the familiar condescending smile. Raul rolled on the floor, hitting his right leg to test it for reaction and getting none. He was too absorbed to notice the knock on the door.
“Enter.”
A brown haired man in a suit walked in, followed by a red haired teenager in Capri pants.
“Why are we in a prison? I thought we were going to get your partner,” the girl complained.
“Could you just be quiet for a minute?” The man in the suit attempted to silence her for the hundredth time.
“Agent Hunt,” the Doctor approached and surrendered the small remote device to the man, “Your partner is ready. We are releasing him to your full control. He may be somewhat sore and grumpy for awhile, but it shall pass…”
“Thank you Doctor,” Agent Brian Hunt helped Raul to his feet. Sweating and gasping, Raul observed the impatient teenager. In unison, Raul and Savannah pointed at each other, “Who’s this?”
The echo of casual, loitering footsteps against a concrete floor augmented with their approach. He lifted his head away from the fist supporting it. Stop here, stop here, he thought. The pudgy guard with the closely shaven Mohawk ceased shuffling before his cell. The guard paused silently, letting suspense grow in the prisoner.
Fuck you Lars. Are you here for me or not? Quit screwing around. The prisoner knew better not to prod the bulky guard. Lars would refuse to budge for several minutes if he thought it would unnerve his audience.
Lars the guard retrieved his keychain, “Raul Thomas. Come with me.”
“About time.”
Lars smirked, revealing the gap where a front tooth had been, “Your boyfriend is on the way. We got somethin’ for ya, a goin’ away present.”
Lars led Raul around the corner from the cell block and down a series of halls. He gripped Raul by the nape to halt him and rapped on a door.
“Enter,” a stern female voice responded from inside.
Lars turned the knob and used Raul’s face to push the door open, throwing him to the floor inside. The guards on either side of the woman in the lab coat rushed to restrain Raul. She circumnavigated Raul, pinned to the cold floor. Lars closed the door behind him, folded his arms, and displayed his stupid incomplete smile.
“Good day Monsieur Thomas. I understand you have an arrangement with some people in high places.” The brunette woman squatted and rolled up his right pant leg.
“Who are you?”
“My name is not important. Just call me Doctor if you need to call me anything.” She rolled down his sock. The “Doctor” revealed an electrical device attached to a brace, and commenced fastening it to his ankle.
“Some GPS I take it?” Raul expected this would be happening. They were not going to release a known criminal from their custody without some means of tracking.
“GPS, yes, we’ll go with your theory...” She wore a condescending smile as she clicked the ankle piece into a secure lock and removed a small luggage-sized key. She fixed her glasses and stood upright.
“Stand.”
The guards restraining Raul pulled him to his feet, then retreated to the Doctor.
“Fight.”
“What? Are you kidding?” Raul looked to the Doctor against the left wall. Lars’ flying fist connected with his exposed cheek. He tumbled backwards but bounced to his feet just as fast.
“Come on punk, I know you got fight in ya!” Lars taunted, stepping forward.
“Too bad for you, that’s the only hit you’re gonna land,” Raul assumed a defensive martial position.
“We’ll see ‘bout that,” Lars propelled a right hook… dodged. Raul sidestepped a left jab and elbowed the guard’s ear. Lars staggered to the side and growled. He spun and lunged, Raul chopped the guard in the throat. THWAM… how bad Raul wanted to… THWAM… hit this jackass of a guard… TWHAM… for so long. Underestimating his nimble opponent, the guard collapsed to the floor wheezing.
Raul turned his vision to the Doctor and her companions. The guards readied for his approach. The Doctor calmly removed a tiny remote from the pocket of her lab coat and pushed the middle of three buttons.
“GGGGGYYYYYYYAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!” An intense surge from Raul’s ankle paralyzed his leg and dropped him to the floor, “What the fuck? I cannot feel my leg!”
“No worries Monsieur Thomas. It is only temporary. You will be fine. Feeling should return within a few hours,” she gave the familiar condescending smile. Raul rolled on the floor, hitting his right leg to test it for reaction and getting none. He was too absorbed to notice the knock on the door.
“Enter.”
A brown haired man in a suit walked in, followed by a red haired teenager in Capri pants.
“Why are we in a prison? I thought we were going to get your partner,” the girl complained.
“Could you just be quiet for a minute?” The man in the suit attempted to silence her for the hundredth time.
“Agent Hunt,” the Doctor approached and surrendered the small remote device to the man, “Your partner is ready. We are releasing him to your full control. He may be somewhat sore and grumpy for awhile, but it shall pass…”
“Thank you Doctor,” Agent Brian Hunt helped Raul to his feet. Sweating and gasping, Raul observed the impatient teenager. In unison, Raul and Savannah pointed at each other, “Who’s this?”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)