“Day 100. Can you believe it’s been 100 days Dustin?”
Ugh, Wayne. Not Wayne. It’s too early in the morning for Wayne’s psychobabble. Dustin gazed at his computer monitor, attempting to check his Email, and hoping that Wayne would stop talking to the back of his head. Wayne looked over Dustin at a distant wall mounted monitor displaying close captioned CNN headlines. Dustin wished he were deaf, at least he could watch CNN in peace.
Every office had a Wayne. A Wayne was someone that loved to hear himself talk endlessly about nothing; someone people avoided eye contact with. A Wayne had such a reputation that would encourage subtle assistance from co-workers to save one another from the misfortunes of being cornered. Here was the office celebrity, the “Wayne of all Waynes” in all his glory, an unwelcome visitor in Dustin’s cubicle, reciting CNN as if Dustin were illiterate and not thoroughly exhausted of hearing about the Gulf oil spill.
“Did you know Tony Hayward is getting replaced? I think it’s about time, don’t you?” His nasal voice spiked hatred in Dustin, but he withheld enough to reply with rigid politeness, “I can read Wayne.”
The muted news anchor had moved on to an Iowa dam break, and Wayne followed suit. “Did they explain what caused the dam to...”
“’Scuse me Dustin can you look at this ticket for me please?” It was Crystal, right on cue, sparing Dustin from further abuse. She maneuvered her stout torso around Wayne and pointed at a blank piece of paper until Wayne departed.
“Thanks,” Dustin smirked and returned to his monitor. Crystal spoke in a gossipy mumble, “Geez he’s wound up today ain’t he? There’s a full moon out can’t you tell?”
“Yeah I saw it last night.”
“I think it’s really making people extra wacky because Venus is in retrograde which is odd for the early phase of Leo…”
Oh God. Don’t go into the zodiac stuff again Crystal. Don’t do it.
“...if you saw the moon last night, you could also see Mars if you had a clear sky, it was just off to the…"
“Shucks, missed it,” Dustin spoke with deflating enthusiasm. It was too late. Crystal had claimed Dustin’s only pencil and was sketching the planetary locations on the blank paper. He put his hand to his temples, perhaps she’d understand he really wasn’t following her, nor cared to. His distant expression only provoked Crystal further. Blah, blah, blah…
“Pardon me sir but did you see Jeopardy last night,” a deep male voice broadcasted over Crystal. Dustin knew what Guy was doing. Crystal had reached Wayne status, and Dustin was offered another life preserver. The bubbly Sage of the Zodiac retreated, leaving Guy in her place. The short man folded his arms; Dustin nodded in gratitude, faced his screen, and began to type. Finally, some peace and quiet.
“No I’m serious, did you see it?”
Oh come on, still here? “No Guy I did not see it, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me all about it…”
Guy explained with the energy of a sports commentator, “This one contestant was unbelievable! Shakespearian Characters, nailed it. Canadian Provinces, nailed it. African capitals, a personal favorite… nailed! Then he gets Periodic Table and meets his match! Who knows the capital of Burkina Faso but cannot get the obvious hint of Argon? I mean, come on…”
Dustin hoped Guy’s diaphragm would cramp from not stopping for oxygen. He patiently rubbed his temples, wondering whatever part of him that was emanating ‘Come babble to me’ could be located and maimed.
Guy ceased his animated rant when a woman with bloodshot eyes stepped alongside him.
“I need to talk… I’m sorry…” the woman welled up, fighting tears. Not one for drama, Guy placed his hand to his ear, “Is that my phone? Sorry I’ll let you two…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.
Dustin grimaced at Tabitha, his latest train wreck of a visitor. “Ohmigod what happened,” he made his strongest effort to not sound monotone.
“He (sniffle) hasn’t returned my text yet,” Tabitha whined as a tear rolled down her cheek.
“When did you text him?”
“Two hours ago. He doesn’t normally take that long,” she wiped her eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to come over and start (sob)…” She crumpled her face and pointed at her eyes. Dustin would have gouged out his eyes and eardrums right then and there if Crystal hadn't made away with the pencil.
Dustin frowned. Yes you do. You know you meant to come over here and cry. You always do. And you cry to me because I am the only one that will look like I’m listening. Dustin offered a tissue, as was the normal routine with Tabitha. “Look Tab I don’t mean to be insensitive, but you’ll have to excuse me. I need to use the restroom.”
Tabitha leaned on his desk, clearing her eyes. Dustin really did not need to go, but sought an excuse to leave. All he wanted was a little peace and quiet; simply check his Email and do some work, uninterrupted. He walked across the office, ignoring two other counts of people trying to bleed their woes to him, before arriving at the mens room. He splashed his face with cold water and fidgeted with his hair. The furthest stall produced a flush, and the door unhinged.
The nasal voice pierced his soul, “Can you really believe it’s been 100 days?”
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Unemployment Rate (three word Wednesday - bait, jump, victim; and Flash Friday)
Hank had no reason to expect company at nine-thirty in the morning. Date and time had not meant much to him in over three months. He threw a plaid robe over his boxers, made a feeble attempt to push his hair back, and answered the knocking at the front door. A clean cut man in a grey business suit nodded and extended his hand.
“Mister Hank Rowan, I presume?”
Hank scanned the younger man quizzically through sagging eyes. Hank knew he looked like shit; his face was scruffy, his hair awry, his teeth not brushed, he had not been graced with a shower in two days. Still the suited man did not look phased by Hank’s unkempt presentation. He leaned on his door and croaked, “What do you want?”
“My name is Walter, I am from Domestic Services.”
“What can I do for you Walter?”
“I understand you’ve been unemployed for awhile now,” Walter claimed the briefcase resting against his ankle and maneuvered his way around Hank. The living room was as maintained as its occupant. Taken aback by Walter’s aggressive jump indoors, Hank spoke slowly, “I was victim of a layoff in March.”
“Sorry to hear that. How has your search for re-employment gone?”
“It’s a tough market out there. I’ve sent resumes, I’ve looked online. Temp agencies. Nothing. Been collecting for about seven weeks.”
“Maybe I should discuss my reason for the visit. I believe I can help you, Hank. The Presidency has been very concerned about the nation’s unemployment rate being so high. A small group of individuals like myself were hired by the government to see what we can do to remedy the situation. Think of my visit as a job interview brought to you.”
Hank rubbed his chin. He had never heard of such a thing. Still he was willing to hear Walter state his case. Almost anything Walter proposed could be better than eating Ramen noodles two meals a day, and still facing a foreclosure. Walter interpreted his doubt, “Our organization has succeeded over the second quarter in bringing the rate from 9.9 to 9.7. It may not seem like much, but it’s thousands of individuals we are talking about…”
“Your group is taking the credit for the improvement?”
“You said it yourself Hank, it’s a tough market out there.”
“Alright then,” Hank took the bait, “What does your group do exactly?”
“Hank,” Walter pointed quickly and smirked, “I’m glad you asked. We look for unemployed and financially desperate individuals, such as yourself, no offense... and place them where they are no longer dependent on government funded support. This is creating a turnaround in national profit because we have reduced those relying on welfare.”
“Sounds like you’ve definitely done your part against the recession.”
Walter placed his briefcase on the filthy coffee table and unhinged the braces, “In fact, I guarantee I can get you to work by the end of the day!”
“That would be great! What kind of work? Do you need my resume?” Hank scanned the room, failing to locate his resume folder.
“No resume necessary Hank,” Walter revealed a .38 Magnum from the briefcase.
Hank froze in his footsteps, “You’re not really from the government, are you?”
Walter grinned, “I promised you some work. How are you with a shovel?"
“Mister Hank Rowan, I presume?”
Hank scanned the younger man quizzically through sagging eyes. Hank knew he looked like shit; his face was scruffy, his hair awry, his teeth not brushed, he had not been graced with a shower in two days. Still the suited man did not look phased by Hank’s unkempt presentation. He leaned on his door and croaked, “What do you want?”
“My name is Walter, I am from Domestic Services.”
“What can I do for you Walter?”
“I understand you’ve been unemployed for awhile now,” Walter claimed the briefcase resting against his ankle and maneuvered his way around Hank. The living room was as maintained as its occupant. Taken aback by Walter’s aggressive jump indoors, Hank spoke slowly, “I was victim of a layoff in March.”
“Sorry to hear that. How has your search for re-employment gone?”
“It’s a tough market out there. I’ve sent resumes, I’ve looked online. Temp agencies. Nothing. Been collecting for about seven weeks.”
“Maybe I should discuss my reason for the visit. I believe I can help you, Hank. The Presidency has been very concerned about the nation’s unemployment rate being so high. A small group of individuals like myself were hired by the government to see what we can do to remedy the situation. Think of my visit as a job interview brought to you.”
Hank rubbed his chin. He had never heard of such a thing. Still he was willing to hear Walter state his case. Almost anything Walter proposed could be better than eating Ramen noodles two meals a day, and still facing a foreclosure. Walter interpreted his doubt, “Our organization has succeeded over the second quarter in bringing the rate from 9.9 to 9.7. It may not seem like much, but it’s thousands of individuals we are talking about…”
“Your group is taking the credit for the improvement?”
“You said it yourself Hank, it’s a tough market out there.”
“Alright then,” Hank took the bait, “What does your group do exactly?”
“Hank,” Walter pointed quickly and smirked, “I’m glad you asked. We look for unemployed and financially desperate individuals, such as yourself, no offense... and place them where they are no longer dependent on government funded support. This is creating a turnaround in national profit because we have reduced those relying on welfare.”
“Sounds like you’ve definitely done your part against the recession.”
Walter placed his briefcase on the filthy coffee table and unhinged the braces, “In fact, I guarantee I can get you to work by the end of the day!”
“That would be great! What kind of work? Do you need my resume?” Hank scanned the room, failing to locate his resume folder.
“No resume necessary Hank,” Walter revealed a .38 Magnum from the briefcase.
Hank froze in his footsteps, “You’re not really from the government, are you?”
Walter grinned, “I promised you some work. How are you with a shovel?"
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
To whom it may concern (three word Wednesday - gentle, praise, vulgar)
Dear writers,
I am writing this in good conscience that I need to make my voice heard on a subject that has been of great concern for awhile now. I am deeply worried that the subject of vampires has been overused in today’s movies and literature. Look, I know there’s a dark, mysterious danger that the vampire character offers to your fiction. Hollywood has cast us as a cold and savage species. It’s not like that at all. We are not so vulgar as to hunt down you humans for blood. Quite frankly, it’s far too messy. Everyone seems to have some sort of GPS these days. Next thing you know, the cops are all over you. Then it’s all this explaining, all this paperwork, possible arrest or even getting shot at. And what vampire likes to get shot at? Not yours truly, my friends.
Hollywood has recently made us an anti-hero. This has worsened our lifestyle truthfully. I feel it has impinged on our anonymity. Everywhere I go, humans want autographs. It has also become an unbearable nuisance with the paparazzi. Don’t they realize I will not show up in photos? I am no role model and certainly no anti-hero. I feel the praise and attention we receive is simply not justified.
I would furthermore like to set the record straight for bats. Bats have really got a bad reputation through the whole vampire infatuation you humans have going on. Bats are not after your blood, they hone in by sonar. If you don’t want them to bother you, then stop making noises! They are a pretty gentle animal overall and should be considered for domestication. If you were the first in your neighborhood with a pet bat, I am certain you’d be the talk of the neighborhood. Untapped potential here, people. It’s no more difficult than owning a ferret. Less odorous, too. Think of them as small, blind ferrets with wings. What’s not to love?
I go to the blood bank and pay for my meals like every honest hard working vampire. I sleep the sunlight hours away, so please stop knocking on my door during the daytime hours. I am not interested in your life insurance or your girl scout cookies. Just let me sleep people. A little privacy is all I ask. If you are awake in the wee hours of the morning, you can text or Email me, even follow me on Twitter. I’d rather you not visit in person though, I’m a bear if you interrupt my DVR’d Oprah.
Respectfully,
D
I am writing this in good conscience that I need to make my voice heard on a subject that has been of great concern for awhile now. I am deeply worried that the subject of vampires has been overused in today’s movies and literature. Look, I know there’s a dark, mysterious danger that the vampire character offers to your fiction. Hollywood has cast us as a cold and savage species. It’s not like that at all. We are not so vulgar as to hunt down you humans for blood. Quite frankly, it’s far too messy. Everyone seems to have some sort of GPS these days. Next thing you know, the cops are all over you. Then it’s all this explaining, all this paperwork, possible arrest or even getting shot at. And what vampire likes to get shot at? Not yours truly, my friends.
Hollywood has recently made us an anti-hero. This has worsened our lifestyle truthfully. I feel it has impinged on our anonymity. Everywhere I go, humans want autographs. It has also become an unbearable nuisance with the paparazzi. Don’t they realize I will not show up in photos? I am no role model and certainly no anti-hero. I feel the praise and attention we receive is simply not justified.
I would furthermore like to set the record straight for bats. Bats have really got a bad reputation through the whole vampire infatuation you humans have going on. Bats are not after your blood, they hone in by sonar. If you don’t want them to bother you, then stop making noises! They are a pretty gentle animal overall and should be considered for domestication. If you were the first in your neighborhood with a pet bat, I am certain you’d be the talk of the neighborhood. Untapped potential here, people. It’s no more difficult than owning a ferret. Less odorous, too. Think of them as small, blind ferrets with wings. What’s not to love?
I go to the blood bank and pay for my meals like every honest hard working vampire. I sleep the sunlight hours away, so please stop knocking on my door during the daytime hours. I am not interested in your life insurance or your girl scout cookies. Just let me sleep people. A little privacy is all I ask. If you are awake in the wee hours of the morning, you can text or Email me, even follow me on Twitter. I’d rather you not visit in person though, I’m a bear if you interrupt my DVR’d Oprah.
Respectfully,
D
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Twisted Experiment (three word Wednesday - acrid, bane, tepid)
I went with a continuation of The Cortez Case, characters in this installment were last seen in 3ww stories "Hostage" and "El Moco."
Blinding light protruded around the silhouette of the large man in the doorway. “Get up kid.”
Ryan planted a hand on the floor. His arm wobbled and strained. How long had it been? He had lost weight at an unhealthy rate, feverishly devouring whatever poor excuses for meals that were brought to him. Slices of bread, half eaten sandwiches, tepid leftovers, and an occasional bowl of oatmeal had been the cause of noticeable reduction in his arms and waist. He had not complained, for his adjustment to the high seas had not been a smooth one, and he feared a normal portion of food would not stay down. He knew they would not let him starve to death, as much as he thought that may be favorable. They would not let him, and he would not let himself. He was determined to get out. Alive.
The hair that fell around his face as he lifted his head reminded him that starvation was minor on his priorities. They had been drugging him. Not the good drugs. Not heroin. Ryan would take every one of them to hell for a fix of heroin. He had gone without for far too long. He dreamed of it. He hungered for it… more than a full meal... more than the need to shake the seasickness... more than life itself. He needed a fix. And he needed it now. The drugs he had been receiving failed at giving him a high. The only trippy effect was dizziness and a loss of balance. It was not even a loss, more of a shift. And body changes were a bane to his pride and his manhood. His facial hair had stopped growing. His skin was softer. His chest had become itchy with small pectoral growths. And, most horrific of all, his crotch had painfully shriveled to a fragile feeling of a rotten tomato. He dared not touch for fear of breaking anything. His voice had become less gruff and monotone, more pitchy and melodic. He found himself crying frequently, and mad at himself for not keeping it together. He had not seen himself since these changes began and was sure he didn’t want to.
A size 12 black shoe appeared alongside Ryan.
“I said get up,” a painful tug at Ryan’s hair weave hoisted him to his feet. Ryan stood level to Brick’s chest, which due to his girth was still larger than Ryan’s hormonally altered chest. Ryan thought about kicking his heel straight into Brick’s nuts, but feared a reciprocated strike would destroy him.
“It’s time to go,” Brick patted down Ryan’s faux hair as if patting a dog. Brick revealed a washcloth and commenced toweling the sweat from Ryan’s face. Ryan wished Carlos had come to get him. Carlos would have let him get up on his own, and thrown the washcloth at him. Not Brick. Brick was a creepy man. Ryan’s hormonal alterations were Brick’s fault, Brick’s twisted experiment. Ryan was not sure where they were going, but Brick’s efforts to make him presentable made him want to crawl out of his skin. They departed the cargo room, climbed stairs while the ocean fought his skewed balance, and finally arrived in the sunlight. The acrid odor of low tide rushed in, the sea breeze pushing his long hair across his nose repetitively. The boat was smaller than he anticipated. He envisioned a large cargo rig, but the deck was merely a rundown mid-sized tug boat. The coastline before them was lush and rural. Carlos roped the boat to a dock and faced the coast, little Chloe at his side. The blond kindergartener was preoccupied with a Barbie doll. At least their captors had a heart enough to keep Chloe happy.
Chloe nudged Carlos, “Are we going to see my Daddy now?”
“Not yet. But your friend Ryan is here,” Carlos motioned to Brick and Ryan approaching. Ryan walked up to her, “Hi Chloe, how are you?”
“You’re not Ryan! Ryan’s a boy!”
Her innocent observation rattled Ryan worse than any pain he’d ever endured. Brick smiled to Carlos, “See. Told you. Believable enough.”
“We’ll see. If Moco doesn’t buy it, I swear Brick, I’ll kill you…” Carlos blurted.
The knocking of several footsteps along the wooden dock grew louder. A greasy overweight Brazilian man lumbered amongst three bodyguards. Three onboard nervously watched the approach of Moco and his entourage; the fourth watched her Barbie doll.
Blinding light protruded around the silhouette of the large man in the doorway. “Get up kid.”
Ryan planted a hand on the floor. His arm wobbled and strained. How long had it been? He had lost weight at an unhealthy rate, feverishly devouring whatever poor excuses for meals that were brought to him. Slices of bread, half eaten sandwiches, tepid leftovers, and an occasional bowl of oatmeal had been the cause of noticeable reduction in his arms and waist. He had not complained, for his adjustment to the high seas had not been a smooth one, and he feared a normal portion of food would not stay down. He knew they would not let him starve to death, as much as he thought that may be favorable. They would not let him, and he would not let himself. He was determined to get out. Alive.
The hair that fell around his face as he lifted his head reminded him that starvation was minor on his priorities. They had been drugging him. Not the good drugs. Not heroin. Ryan would take every one of them to hell for a fix of heroin. He had gone without for far too long. He dreamed of it. He hungered for it… more than a full meal... more than the need to shake the seasickness... more than life itself. He needed a fix. And he needed it now. The drugs he had been receiving failed at giving him a high. The only trippy effect was dizziness and a loss of balance. It was not even a loss, more of a shift. And body changes were a bane to his pride and his manhood. His facial hair had stopped growing. His skin was softer. His chest had become itchy with small pectoral growths. And, most horrific of all, his crotch had painfully shriveled to a fragile feeling of a rotten tomato. He dared not touch for fear of breaking anything. His voice had become less gruff and monotone, more pitchy and melodic. He found himself crying frequently, and mad at himself for not keeping it together. He had not seen himself since these changes began and was sure he didn’t want to.
A size 12 black shoe appeared alongside Ryan.
“I said get up,” a painful tug at Ryan’s hair weave hoisted him to his feet. Ryan stood level to Brick’s chest, which due to his girth was still larger than Ryan’s hormonally altered chest. Ryan thought about kicking his heel straight into Brick’s nuts, but feared a reciprocated strike would destroy him.
“It’s time to go,” Brick patted down Ryan’s faux hair as if patting a dog. Brick revealed a washcloth and commenced toweling the sweat from Ryan’s face. Ryan wished Carlos had come to get him. Carlos would have let him get up on his own, and thrown the washcloth at him. Not Brick. Brick was a creepy man. Ryan’s hormonal alterations were Brick’s fault, Brick’s twisted experiment. Ryan was not sure where they were going, but Brick’s efforts to make him presentable made him want to crawl out of his skin. They departed the cargo room, climbed stairs while the ocean fought his skewed balance, and finally arrived in the sunlight. The acrid odor of low tide rushed in, the sea breeze pushing his long hair across his nose repetitively. The boat was smaller than he anticipated. He envisioned a large cargo rig, but the deck was merely a rundown mid-sized tug boat. The coastline before them was lush and rural. Carlos roped the boat to a dock and faced the coast, little Chloe at his side. The blond kindergartener was preoccupied with a Barbie doll. At least their captors had a heart enough to keep Chloe happy.
Chloe nudged Carlos, “Are we going to see my Daddy now?”
“Not yet. But your friend Ryan is here,” Carlos motioned to Brick and Ryan approaching. Ryan walked up to her, “Hi Chloe, how are you?”
“You’re not Ryan! Ryan’s a boy!”
Her innocent observation rattled Ryan worse than any pain he’d ever endured. Brick smiled to Carlos, “See. Told you. Believable enough.”
“We’ll see. If Moco doesn’t buy it, I swear Brick, I’ll kill you…” Carlos blurted.
The knocking of several footsteps along the wooden dock grew louder. A greasy overweight Brazilian man lumbered amongst three bodyguards. Three onboard nervously watched the approach of Moco and his entourage; the fourth watched her Barbie doll.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Interview (three word Wednesday x 3- hassle, inject, wealth, erase, meadow, trace, feign, virtue, imply)
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.”
“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 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?”
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