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?”
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Applesauce (three word Wednesday - abandon, gradual, precise)
More from the cast of "In the Line Of Duty", "The New Assignment" and "Meeting Savannah". Thanks in advance for visitng!
“Are you serious? That is your car?”
Brian remotely unlocked a white Volkswagen Jetta in the parking lot of the FBI building, “What’s wrong with the car?”
“Nothing. If you’re a chick,” Savannah jeered, climbing into the passenger seat.
“The Jetta had very high reviews. Good gas mileage, excellent warranty, reasonable price...” Brian secured his safety belt, turned the ignition and adjusted his MP3.
“What are you trying to do, sell it to me? Thanks but no thanks, commercial man.”
“I thought you said this was a chick ride?”
“It is. Doesn’t mean I’d want one. Too froofy for me,” Savannah revealed a pistol from the glove box, “whoa, nice!”
“Can you please put that back!?” Brian’s voice turned stern.
“Suppose I should learn to shoot one of these eh? Is this thing loaded?”
“You’re holding it up where everyone can see! Put it DOWN Savannah!”
“All right… easy there Applesauce, wasn’t gonna shoot nobody,” Savannah returned the firearm to the glove box. “So can we go to a firing range?”
“Maybe sometime. Not now.”
Savannah frowned and retrieved a wallet from the pocket of her Capri pants. Fidgeting idly with it, she abruptly flipped it open and shouted, “FREEZE! FBI, Muddafuckers!”
Brian jumped out of his skin. “Can we NOT do that while I’m driving?”
“You really need to chill…”
“Wait, they gave you a badge?”
“Course. I’m pro,” she boasted.
“What ever happened to ‘all you stuffpants cannot think for yourselves’”
“Stuffpants?” Savannah giggled, “Try stuffshirts. If you stuff your pants, that’s your business.”
Brian glanced at her badge, it was the real deal. How could Ed have given her a badge? She continued, “I told you, I’m pro. I’ll be stopping muddafuckers in their tracks!”
“A little discretion Savannah, that badge is for agents that carry themselves professionally. They wouldn’t be shouting muddafuckers…”
“Precisely. I told you though, I’m no stuffshirt. I’m not gonna keep my mouth clean and drive around in girly cars.” She resumed her mock arrest, “Freeze fuckers, FBI! Is that better?”
Brian sighed. Savannah felt her humor had been lost, and decided to change topic. “So what’s your story Applesauce? Am I gonna meet a new mom? New brothers and sisters?”
“I’m divorced. No kids. Well, until you, I guess. What’s with Applesauce?”
“I figured since I like you better, I upgraded you from Asshole to Applesauce.”
Brian tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, “Can you not call me that?”
“Too late, you responded to it already. That means you accepted it, so you’re stuck with it… Applesauce.”
“Wonderful.”
“You like it, you know you do,” Savannah taunted.
“What about you? What’s your story?”
Savannah panned her eyes downward, “Dad abandoned me and mom when I was four. Who knows where that asshole is...”
“And your mom?”
She spoke in sincerity, “Mom OD’d when I was eight. She had a gift too, stronger than mine. Her mind gradually drove her crazy. She could not turn it off. She had all these headaches. Needed drugs to cope. Became too dependent and that was that.”
Brian was touched as she raised her eyes to him. It was the first time he had seen genuine emotion from the sassy girl.
“I don’t wanna end up like that. I’m gonna keep my powers under control. And I’m staying off drugs. No matter how bad it gets.”
Brian smiled, “That’s a good girl.” He failed to see what Ed saw in this teenager that would make her valuable until this moment. Beneath the sarcasm and the teasing was a responsible young adult. He placed his hand on her shoulder, mimicking a proud father, “You won’t end up that way.”
Savannah snapped into her normal tone, “OK creepy. Touch my shoulder again I’ll bend your fingers backwards 'til they break.”
“Sorry I was just trying to console…”
“Asshole. That’s right, you’re downgraded.”
“Can you stop with the swearing? It’s not very ladylike,” Brian slowed to a stop at a traffic light.
“You’re the one with the Jetta.”
“This is not a chick ride!”
“Oh yeah?” Savannah nodded her head in a motion to advise Brian to look left. A large man in a pick-up truck craned his head curiously to examine the Jetta’s operator, then cowered in embarrassment upon noticing Brian.
“You must get all the guys in this thing. Maybe I should drive it.”
“You’re a brat, you know that?”
“Thanks for noticing, Asshole.”
“Are you serious? That is your car?”
Brian remotely unlocked a white Volkswagen Jetta in the parking lot of the FBI building, “What’s wrong with the car?”
“Nothing. If you’re a chick,” Savannah jeered, climbing into the passenger seat.
“The Jetta had very high reviews. Good gas mileage, excellent warranty, reasonable price...” Brian secured his safety belt, turned the ignition and adjusted his MP3.
“What are you trying to do, sell it to me? Thanks but no thanks, commercial man.”
“I thought you said this was a chick ride?”
“It is. Doesn’t mean I’d want one. Too froofy for me,” Savannah revealed a pistol from the glove box, “whoa, nice!”
“Can you please put that back!?” Brian’s voice turned stern.
“Suppose I should learn to shoot one of these eh? Is this thing loaded?”
“You’re holding it up where everyone can see! Put it DOWN Savannah!”
“All right… easy there Applesauce, wasn’t gonna shoot nobody,” Savannah returned the firearm to the glove box. “So can we go to a firing range?”
“Maybe sometime. Not now.”
Savannah frowned and retrieved a wallet from the pocket of her Capri pants. Fidgeting idly with it, she abruptly flipped it open and shouted, “FREEZE! FBI, Muddafuckers!”
Brian jumped out of his skin. “Can we NOT do that while I’m driving?”
“You really need to chill…”
“Wait, they gave you a badge?”
“Course. I’m pro,” she boasted.
“What ever happened to ‘all you stuffpants cannot think for yourselves’”
“Stuffpants?” Savannah giggled, “Try stuffshirts. If you stuff your pants, that’s your business.”
Brian glanced at her badge, it was the real deal. How could Ed have given her a badge? She continued, “I told you, I’m pro. I’ll be stopping muddafuckers in their tracks!”
“A little discretion Savannah, that badge is for agents that carry themselves professionally. They wouldn’t be shouting muddafuckers…”
“Precisely. I told you though, I’m no stuffshirt. I’m not gonna keep my mouth clean and drive around in girly cars.” She resumed her mock arrest, “Freeze fuckers, FBI! Is that better?”
Brian sighed. Savannah felt her humor had been lost, and decided to change topic. “So what’s your story Applesauce? Am I gonna meet a new mom? New brothers and sisters?”
“I’m divorced. No kids. Well, until you, I guess. What’s with Applesauce?”
“I figured since I like you better, I upgraded you from Asshole to Applesauce.”
Brian tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, “Can you not call me that?”
“Too late, you responded to it already. That means you accepted it, so you’re stuck with it… Applesauce.”
“Wonderful.”
“You like it, you know you do,” Savannah taunted.
“What about you? What’s your story?”
Savannah panned her eyes downward, “Dad abandoned me and mom when I was four. Who knows where that asshole is...”
“And your mom?”
She spoke in sincerity, “Mom OD’d when I was eight. She had a gift too, stronger than mine. Her mind gradually drove her crazy. She could not turn it off. She had all these headaches. Needed drugs to cope. Became too dependent and that was that.”
Brian was touched as she raised her eyes to him. It was the first time he had seen genuine emotion from the sassy girl.
“I don’t wanna end up like that. I’m gonna keep my powers under control. And I’m staying off drugs. No matter how bad it gets.”
Brian smiled, “That’s a good girl.” He failed to see what Ed saw in this teenager that would make her valuable until this moment. Beneath the sarcasm and the teasing was a responsible young adult. He placed his hand on her shoulder, mimicking a proud father, “You won’t end up that way.”
Savannah snapped into her normal tone, “OK creepy. Touch my shoulder again I’ll bend your fingers backwards 'til they break.”
“Sorry I was just trying to console…”
“Asshole. That’s right, you’re downgraded.”
“Can you stop with the swearing? It’s not very ladylike,” Brian slowed to a stop at a traffic light.
“You’re the one with the Jetta.”
“This is not a chick ride!”
“Oh yeah?” Savannah nodded her head in a motion to advise Brian to look left. A large man in a pick-up truck craned his head curiously to examine the Jetta’s operator, then cowered in embarrassment upon noticing Brian.
“You must get all the guys in this thing. Maybe I should drive it.”
“You’re a brat, you know that?”
“Thanks for noticing, Asshole.”
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Hostage (three word Wednesday - dread, grasp, pacify)
This is a continuation of past 3ww short story "Bad to Worse," hope you enjoy.
Ryan awakened to a coarse sound of a heavy iron door being pushed open. Sharp pain spiked from his scalp as he lifted his head. He returned his cheek to the drool on wooden floor, forcing his eyes open. The blur of wooden barrels and crates surrounded him. Straddling the floor did his dizziness little justice, the entire room swayed to and fro. His eyeballs rolled backwards in a desire for unconsciousness.
“Sit up kid, it’s time you eat something.” A male voice spoke from behind him. Ryan squirmed to change angle, rolling onto his back. His face filled with dread when he recognized the unclear image of the weasel-like Carlos.
“Uuunnnhhh fooood?” Ryan said in a weak groan.
Carlos presented a hot dog on a paper plate. Ryan struggled to sit upright; hair brushed his cheeks and fell upon his shoulders. “Whaaa?” he gasped, bringing his hands to the surprisingly long hair. Examining his head as much as handcuffs would allow, he discovered the new mane of dirty blond hair also fell down his back.
“What have you done to me?”
“I think they call it a hair weave,” Carlos was amused, watching Ryan grasp his new extensions and pull wildly, only causing himself further scalp pains. Ryan’s fright deepened when he noticed the black skirt he was wearing only covered twenty percent of his shaven legs. His balance teetered as the room shifted to the ocean waves.
“MY CLOTHES!!” Ryan squealed, pulling at his powder blue halter top.
“Brick thought you had better get used to wearing that sorta stuff. Break you in, I guess.”
“YOU FREAKS! I want my clothes back NOW!”
“I don’t really think you’re in any position to make demands. Now why don’t you be a good girl and eat this hot dog.” Carlos grinned evilly.
“I am NOT a girl!”
“Like I said, the breaking-in stage… now here.”
Ryan eyed the food, feigning disinterest. He tried to hide the fact his stomach was growling. He felt like they were starving him. Perhaps they were. Perhaps he should turn his nose up to the hot dog and starve to death. Ryan sat motionless and scowling. Carlos finally spoke, “Look kid, don’t blame me. I woulda left you dead in a ditch. You ain’t hurting nobody but yourself if you don’t eat. Then again, you lose a few more pounds and you’re gonna be quite a hottie to the auctioneers.”
Ryan swallowed hard. He did not fully know what Carlos meant, but it did not sound good at all. The raging hunger took over. Ryan lunged at the hot dog and devoured it with haste. He did not care about the scattered powder on the meat; he ate viciously and was not satisfied when it was gone.
“Are we on a boat?” Ryan finally spoke after licking the last of the powder from his fingers. Carlos merely smiled.
Ryan’s voice started to slur. “You’re not gonna tell meeee wherrrr weeeeeeerr...” His head fell backward to a thud against the wood floor. A giant man called to Carlos from the doorway, “Did he eat?”
“Yea Brick, he did.”
“You give him both pills?”
“The sedative will keep him pacified. You can see that’s already taken effect.” Carlos motioned to the unconscious cross-dressed boy.
“And the other one?”
Carlos sighed in reluctance, “Yes, I added the estrogen too.”
The two men left the storage room of the ship, closing the heavy iron door in their wake.
Ryan awakened to a coarse sound of a heavy iron door being pushed open. Sharp pain spiked from his scalp as he lifted his head. He returned his cheek to the drool on wooden floor, forcing his eyes open. The blur of wooden barrels and crates surrounded him. Straddling the floor did his dizziness little justice, the entire room swayed to and fro. His eyeballs rolled backwards in a desire for unconsciousness.
“Sit up kid, it’s time you eat something.” A male voice spoke from behind him. Ryan squirmed to change angle, rolling onto his back. His face filled with dread when he recognized the unclear image of the weasel-like Carlos.
“Uuunnnhhh fooood?” Ryan said in a weak groan.
Carlos presented a hot dog on a paper plate. Ryan struggled to sit upright; hair brushed his cheeks and fell upon his shoulders. “Whaaa?” he gasped, bringing his hands to the surprisingly long hair. Examining his head as much as handcuffs would allow, he discovered the new mane of dirty blond hair also fell down his back.
“What have you done to me?”
“I think they call it a hair weave,” Carlos was amused, watching Ryan grasp his new extensions and pull wildly, only causing himself further scalp pains. Ryan’s fright deepened when he noticed the black skirt he was wearing only covered twenty percent of his shaven legs. His balance teetered as the room shifted to the ocean waves.
“MY CLOTHES!!” Ryan squealed, pulling at his powder blue halter top.
“Brick thought you had better get used to wearing that sorta stuff. Break you in, I guess.”
“YOU FREAKS! I want my clothes back NOW!”
“I don’t really think you’re in any position to make demands. Now why don’t you be a good girl and eat this hot dog.” Carlos grinned evilly.
“I am NOT a girl!”
“Like I said, the breaking-in stage… now here.”
Ryan eyed the food, feigning disinterest. He tried to hide the fact his stomach was growling. He felt like they were starving him. Perhaps they were. Perhaps he should turn his nose up to the hot dog and starve to death. Ryan sat motionless and scowling. Carlos finally spoke, “Look kid, don’t blame me. I woulda left you dead in a ditch. You ain’t hurting nobody but yourself if you don’t eat. Then again, you lose a few more pounds and you’re gonna be quite a hottie to the auctioneers.”
Ryan swallowed hard. He did not fully know what Carlos meant, but it did not sound good at all. The raging hunger took over. Ryan lunged at the hot dog and devoured it with haste. He did not care about the scattered powder on the meat; he ate viciously and was not satisfied when it was gone.
“Are we on a boat?” Ryan finally spoke after licking the last of the powder from his fingers. Carlos merely smiled.
Ryan’s voice started to slur. “You’re not gonna tell meeee wherrrr weeeeeeerr...” His head fell backward to a thud against the wood floor. A giant man called to Carlos from the doorway, “Did he eat?”
“Yea Brick, he did.”
“You give him both pills?”
“The sedative will keep him pacified. You can see that’s already taken effect.” Carlos motioned to the unconscious cross-dressed boy.
“And the other one?”
Carlos sighed in reluctance, “Yes, I added the estrogen too.”
The two men left the storage room of the ship, closing the heavy iron door in their wake.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
In the Line Of Duty (three word Wednesday - fear, ignore, weightless)
This is a little more storyline involving characters from past 3ww installments "Meeting Savannah," and "The New Assignment". Hope you enjoy.
“No Ed, absolutely not.”
“I knew you’d object. Don’t worry, everything’s taken care of. You just need to sign the form.”
“I really don’t think this will work.”
The tall, slender supervisor placed a hand on his shoulder, ignoring Brian’s objection. ”Brian, I would only give this arrangement to our most trusted agents.”
Brian caressed the left temple of his forehead, trying to digest what was being asked of him. He knew that employment with the FBI meant they owned you. They could send you anywhere… at any time… as anyone. They made the decisions for you. They thought for you. They were your brain. “She’s a terror Ed. How did you get her to agree to it?”
“Full scholarship for a college of her choice.”
“That was all it took?”
Ed laughed, “No. We also threw in a car, backstage passes to Lady Gaga, and a shopping spree.”
Brian placed his palm on his forehead. Ed continued, ”We presented her with a few candidates. She chose you, as hard as that is for you to believe.”
“Lucky me,” Brian sighed.
“She’s a great asset, Brian.”
Brian frowned and accepted the papers from Ed’s hands. He reviewed the documents in a prolonged silence. Ed waited until Brian’s head emerged from the documents to speak, “I realize this is asking a lot…”
“Adoption?” Brian said with a tone of fear.
“She’s a minor Brian. It would make travelling easier if you were her legal guardian.”
“She’s almost an adult herself…”
“Which is exactly why this arrangement is ideal! Once she is eighteen, she’s not your responsibility anymore.”
“I don’t know the first thing about parenting…”
“She’s an independent person Brian. And it’s not like we’re asking you to change diapers.”
Brian lowered his eyes to the document, “I still think this is above and beyond what is expected of me.”
“She’s an orphan Brian. What orphan hasn’t always wanted a father? Like I said, you are the most trusted agent in the business. I certainly would not place the life of a dependent in an agent’s hands if I did not trust them with my own…”
Brian was touched. Ed had the reputation of a hard ass, and sincere compliments were not in his character. He looked into the wizened, begging eyes of his superior. A long silence subsided with Brian’s sigh.
“Give me the pen. I cannot believe I am doing this.”
The scribbling sound ceased and the document was surrendered to Ed. The slender man shook Brian’s hand, “Thank you. Come with me.”
The two men walked down a long hallway and pushed open a door identified as the office of “Chief Edward Emerson.” An invite into the supervisor’s office was privilege in itself. Brian had only been in this spotless office once before, when they first met six years ago. The place had not changed much. Everything had its place. The books were arranged alphabetically in his bookcase, the blinds were pulled to the same length on all three windows, the abacus on his desk… was not on his desk but instead weightlessly sustained over the surface. Ed exchanged a nod with the red head girl sitting in his plush office chair. He spun on his heel to Brian, “Agent Hunt, a young woman that needs no introduction.” The abacus slowly descended onto the desk and the teenager stood up.
Savannah twisted her lip and winked mischievously, “Hi Daddy!”
Brian gave a bleak smile. ‘Daddy’ would take some getting used to. Ed dropped an envelope in his empty hand.
“What are these? Tickets?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we headed?” Brian opened the envelope, expecting plane tickets to some exotic or dangerous destination.
“I thought it would be a good bonding experience with your daughter,” Ed smirked playfully. ‘Daughter’ would also need to grow on him. Brian’s shoulders slouched in disappointment, while Ed and Savannah smiled at each other.
“Two Lady Gaga tickets!!”
“No Ed, absolutely not.”
“I knew you’d object. Don’t worry, everything’s taken care of. You just need to sign the form.”
“I really don’t think this will work.”
The tall, slender supervisor placed a hand on his shoulder, ignoring Brian’s objection. ”Brian, I would only give this arrangement to our most trusted agents.”
Brian caressed the left temple of his forehead, trying to digest what was being asked of him. He knew that employment with the FBI meant they owned you. They could send you anywhere… at any time… as anyone. They made the decisions for you. They thought for you. They were your brain. “She’s a terror Ed. How did you get her to agree to it?”
“Full scholarship for a college of her choice.”
“That was all it took?”
Ed laughed, “No. We also threw in a car, backstage passes to Lady Gaga, and a shopping spree.”
Brian placed his palm on his forehead. Ed continued, ”We presented her with a few candidates. She chose you, as hard as that is for you to believe.”
“Lucky me,” Brian sighed.
“She’s a great asset, Brian.”
Brian frowned and accepted the papers from Ed’s hands. He reviewed the documents in a prolonged silence. Ed waited until Brian’s head emerged from the documents to speak, “I realize this is asking a lot…”
“Adoption?” Brian said with a tone of fear.
“She’s a minor Brian. It would make travelling easier if you were her legal guardian.”
“She’s almost an adult herself…”
“Which is exactly why this arrangement is ideal! Once she is eighteen, she’s not your responsibility anymore.”
“I don’t know the first thing about parenting…”
“She’s an independent person Brian. And it’s not like we’re asking you to change diapers.”
Brian lowered his eyes to the document, “I still think this is above and beyond what is expected of me.”
“She’s an orphan Brian. What orphan hasn’t always wanted a father? Like I said, you are the most trusted agent in the business. I certainly would not place the life of a dependent in an agent’s hands if I did not trust them with my own…”
Brian was touched. Ed had the reputation of a hard ass, and sincere compliments were not in his character. He looked into the wizened, begging eyes of his superior. A long silence subsided with Brian’s sigh.
“Give me the pen. I cannot believe I am doing this.”
The scribbling sound ceased and the document was surrendered to Ed. The slender man shook Brian’s hand, “Thank you. Come with me.”
The two men walked down a long hallway and pushed open a door identified as the office of “Chief Edward Emerson.” An invite into the supervisor’s office was privilege in itself. Brian had only been in this spotless office once before, when they first met six years ago. The place had not changed much. Everything had its place. The books were arranged alphabetically in his bookcase, the blinds were pulled to the same length on all three windows, the abacus on his desk… was not on his desk but instead weightlessly sustained over the surface. Ed exchanged a nod with the red head girl sitting in his plush office chair. He spun on his heel to Brian, “Agent Hunt, a young woman that needs no introduction.” The abacus slowly descended onto the desk and the teenager stood up.
Savannah twisted her lip and winked mischievously, “Hi Daddy!”
Brian gave a bleak smile. ‘Daddy’ would take some getting used to. Ed dropped an envelope in his empty hand.
“What are these? Tickets?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we headed?” Brian opened the envelope, expecting plane tickets to some exotic or dangerous destination.
“I thought it would be a good bonding experience with your daughter,” Ed smirked playfully. ‘Daughter’ would also need to grow on him. Brian’s shoulders slouched in disappointment, while Ed and Savannah smiled at each other.
“Two Lady Gaga tickets!!”
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Bad To Worse (three word Wednesday - escape, hum, vibrant)
Ryan shivered to the bone. Trudging through dense rain, he appeared as if he had just climbed out of a lake. ‘So hungry,’ he thought. That didn’t matter. Not the lack of food, not the lack of shelter. These were secondary. What he needed was a fix. Just a little more heroin and all his woes would be gone. He searched his right jeans pocket and revealed four pennies. He needed a better lot in life, but few would give a teenage runaway a chance.
His sneezed onto the backside of his hand and folded his arms tight against his soaked torso. He looked up. The activities and lights of a gas station met his eyes. He was not sure how long he had been walking on the sparsely settled road, or which direction he had been going. He knew he could not tolerate the rain much longer. Perhaps they will let him inside the convenience store. If not, he could still dry out under the awning protecting the gas pumps. He worked his way to the fringe of the dry pavement and placed his hands in his pockets. His presence intimidated nearby customers despite his efforts to be invisible. He shook his coat overdramatically as if to display to his skeptics, “look I am just drying out.” He watched a dark blue Audi with tinted windows roll into the nearest pump. A large muscular passenger lumbered into the store, while a smaller weasel-like man worked the pump. The weasel man looked around cautiously while pumping, and sized Ryan up with disgust. He said something quietly into the car once the gassing was complete, and turned for the store.
Ryan paced. The need for heroin again tapped him on the shoulder, whispered in his ear, sent a thirst through his veins. He had never stolen anything that would not fit in the pocket of his baggy hoodie. He knew the plan was poor, but that Audi sure was sweet. It would certainly pay for his addiction, and then some. The door was ajar; the weasel man abandoned the keys on the driver seat. Ryan swallowed hard, and vibrantly ran for the Audi.
He plunged into the seat, shoved the key into its place, and vamoosed with a screeching of tires. The weasel and the bulkier man sprinted out of the store in time to witness his escape. The men revealed pistols, forcefully pulled an elderly man from his nearby Cadillac, and took to chase.
Ryan was immediately impressed with the hum of the engine, smoother than anything he had driven with his driver’s permit. The rear view mirror angled his sight to spot a lumpy green blanket spread across the leather back seat. Before he adjusted the mirror away, the blanket squirmed.
“What the…” Ryan reached backward and forced the blanket to the floor. Lying across the back seat, a small blonde girl bound and gagged stared fearfully back at him. She huffed and flailed with her arms helplessly tied behind her back.
“SHIT! OhmyGod… no f…”
BOOM. A gunshot took out the back window. Ryan swerved and resumed control of the car. He reached back to remove the gag from her mouth while staring ahead.
“Help me!”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Are you a bad guy too?” Ryan was unsure how to respond. He did not think grand theft auto qualified him as “the good guy.”
BOOM.
“Look girl I’ll take you home! I need to know your name so I can help you!”
BOOM. BOOM.
“My name is Chloe! I want to go home!”
“Stay down! I’m gonna try to…”
BOOM POP HISSSSSSSS. Ryan gripped the steering wheel tighter upon the hissing sound of a deflating tire. He depressed the gas pedal with augmenting force, but the Audi soon felt as if it were riding over rocks. Ryan’s white knuckles turned away from the car’s leftward pull while Chloe screamed behind him. The Audi went into a whirl and the encroaching Cadillac pushed Ryan and Chloe into a ditch. Ryan looked up from the airbag, “Chloe, you ok?”
No response. Chloe was unconscious, but breathing. Ryan realized the danger of the situation and kicked the door open. Perhaps he could carry her; perhaps he could flee and report to the police. He jumped to his feet and was met with a firm grasp of his collar.
“You FUCKING LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT! I’LL KILL YOU!” The shorter weasel man threw Ryan into the hood of the Audi. He shoved the pistol against Ryan’s neck. CLICK.
“No Carlos,” the giant man placed a hand on the weasel’s shoulder. He looked Ryan up and down and showed a smile that told Ryan death would be favorable, “He may be worth something. Tie him up. I’ll put Chloe in the Caddy.”
Carlos the weasel man gave a look of disgust Ryan had first seen him wearing, “You’re a sick man, Brick.” With the Audi set ablaze, the party of four departed in the borrowed Cadillac.
His sneezed onto the backside of his hand and folded his arms tight against his soaked torso. He looked up. The activities and lights of a gas station met his eyes. He was not sure how long he had been walking on the sparsely settled road, or which direction he had been going. He knew he could not tolerate the rain much longer. Perhaps they will let him inside the convenience store. If not, he could still dry out under the awning protecting the gas pumps. He worked his way to the fringe of the dry pavement and placed his hands in his pockets. His presence intimidated nearby customers despite his efforts to be invisible. He shook his coat overdramatically as if to display to his skeptics, “look I am just drying out.” He watched a dark blue Audi with tinted windows roll into the nearest pump. A large muscular passenger lumbered into the store, while a smaller weasel-like man worked the pump. The weasel man looked around cautiously while pumping, and sized Ryan up with disgust. He said something quietly into the car once the gassing was complete, and turned for the store.
Ryan paced. The need for heroin again tapped him on the shoulder, whispered in his ear, sent a thirst through his veins. He had never stolen anything that would not fit in the pocket of his baggy hoodie. He knew the plan was poor, but that Audi sure was sweet. It would certainly pay for his addiction, and then some. The door was ajar; the weasel man abandoned the keys on the driver seat. Ryan swallowed hard, and vibrantly ran for the Audi.
He plunged into the seat, shoved the key into its place, and vamoosed with a screeching of tires. The weasel and the bulkier man sprinted out of the store in time to witness his escape. The men revealed pistols, forcefully pulled an elderly man from his nearby Cadillac, and took to chase.
Ryan was immediately impressed with the hum of the engine, smoother than anything he had driven with his driver’s permit. The rear view mirror angled his sight to spot a lumpy green blanket spread across the leather back seat. Before he adjusted the mirror away, the blanket squirmed.
“What the…” Ryan reached backward and forced the blanket to the floor. Lying across the back seat, a small blonde girl bound and gagged stared fearfully back at him. She huffed and flailed with her arms helplessly tied behind her back.
“SHIT! OhmyGod… no f…”
BOOM. A gunshot took out the back window. Ryan swerved and resumed control of the car. He reached back to remove the gag from her mouth while staring ahead.
“Help me!”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Are you a bad guy too?” Ryan was unsure how to respond. He did not think grand theft auto qualified him as “the good guy.”
BOOM.
“Look girl I’ll take you home! I need to know your name so I can help you!”
BOOM. BOOM.
“My name is Chloe! I want to go home!”
“Stay down! I’m gonna try to…”
BOOM POP HISSSSSSSS. Ryan gripped the steering wheel tighter upon the hissing sound of a deflating tire. He depressed the gas pedal with augmenting force, but the Audi soon felt as if it were riding over rocks. Ryan’s white knuckles turned away from the car’s leftward pull while Chloe screamed behind him. The Audi went into a whirl and the encroaching Cadillac pushed Ryan and Chloe into a ditch. Ryan looked up from the airbag, “Chloe, you ok?”
No response. Chloe was unconscious, but breathing. Ryan realized the danger of the situation and kicked the door open. Perhaps he could carry her; perhaps he could flee and report to the police. He jumped to his feet and was met with a firm grasp of his collar.
“You FUCKING LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT! I’LL KILL YOU!” The shorter weasel man threw Ryan into the hood of the Audi. He shoved the pistol against Ryan’s neck. CLICK.
“No Carlos,” the giant man placed a hand on the weasel’s shoulder. He looked Ryan up and down and showed a smile that told Ryan death would be favorable, “He may be worth something. Tie him up. I’ll put Chloe in the Caddy.”
Carlos the weasel man gave a look of disgust Ryan had first seen him wearing, “You’re a sick man, Brick.” With the Audi set ablaze, the party of four departed in the borrowed Cadillac.
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