Scratchpad

Third (write anything challenge, August 5)

2011-08-05T10:06:00.003-04:00

Hi all, this is my two cents for a writing prompt site. Hope you enjoy. http://wa.emergent-publishing.com/writing-prompts/

Julie walked into a room full of people. Everything went uncomfortably silent and all eyes narrowed in on her. She crossed the room, taking a seat at the hair and make-up station in the far corner. Sure, don’t talk about this week’s casualty in front of her, she thought. Georgia gave Victoria a smirk and a wink, implying the Julie-bashing would continue at a later time. Hair stylists and make-up artists scurried around the stations. She could hear the crowd through the walls; she could envision the leggy blond hostess in the wings, preparing to commence the show. The dreaded elimination show. Three girls remained. Georgia: a quirky dancer and crowd favorite since the start of the season. The tough childhood neighborhood, the abandonment from her father, the face of overwhelmed graciousness... how could the audience NOT vote for her? Then there was Victoria. Not Vickie. She was not a Vickie. She started dancing at three, no, in diapers… or was it while she was in the womb? Ballet, jazz, tap, ballroom, she’s been trained in them all. What is she now? Contemporary, naturally. She danced a hip-hop routine this week that Julie hoped would finally show a sign of weakness. Of course not. She aced it. The judges loved her. The crowd loved her. Julie was certain the voters at home loved her too. She never performed hip-hop before. Her skills were superhuman.

Victoria asked Georgia in a mutter which of two dance outfits would be a better choice for the finale show. Georgia gave her a ‘not in front of Julie’ face. At least Georgia was still humble. Julie felt her skills were par to Georgia but Julie had not once received the same level of praise from the judges. The head judge declared Georgia his favorite. Julie was never a favorite. She had outlasted seven other girls since the show began, hundreds in the pre-show cuts and tens of thousands in the initial auditions. She should be happy to have come as far as she had. Millions of Americans have helped her get this far. The week before the finals. And here she sat in the company of the two that would best her tonight. Victoria, incredible. Georgia, unstoppable. Julie, vulnerable.

Applause raised then diminished as the blond spoke her first greeting to the audience. In moments, the three girls would be called to the stage. Julie felt like she were preparing for her own execution.

Georgia hugged Julie, “you look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Julie feigned a smile.

Victoria offered a consoling rub of Julie’s shoulder, “I hope we can still be friends after tonight.”

“Of course, Victoria. Always!” I hope you fall off a bridge, Victoria.

A rap on the door preceded a disembodied male voice. “Ladies, you’re up.”

“Good luck,” Georgia said.

“Break a leg,” Victoria added.

Julie walked in silence. A theater of thousands, several cameras, and the blond host came into view. She squinted as beaming lights of the stage met her eyes. Lights that would highlight every tear that would soon roll down her cheeks.

Second Chance 4 (three word Wednesday - affinity, fidget, mention)

2011-03-02T08:57:00.004-05:00

The final installment of the "Second Chance" story. Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading.

Four young teenagers stood in blackness, their faces illuminated by a lone candle fixed in a bronze candlestick atop a centrally located altar.

“Where are we?” The blond girl asked. The thin brunette grinned evilly. The regular boy shrugged. The last boy stared at the three with icy eyes, emotionless. His aura seethed of ominous power.

The plain boy looked from Ellison to the powerful boy, “Well?”

“Interesting predicament, three have died. Three different outcomes,” the boy Death spoke in such a monotone that Russell doubted he truly found the topic interesting.

The brunette folded her arms. Russell again shrugged at Ellison.

Death positioned himself opposite the others. “To hell with you,” he waved his arm.

The brunette descended through the floor slowly, as if succumbing to quicksand. She did not protest or fight, Russell and Ellison watched her departure in amazement.

Ellison finally spoke, “that’s it for Campbell? Why did she just accept her fate?”

Death spoke, “I am returning her from whence she came. Some people are placed on earth to do great things. Others rise only to carry out evil.”

“That explains Hitler and Bin Laden,” Russell thought aloud.

“And Charlie Sheen,” Ellison added.

The emotionless Death continued, “Campbell was sent from hell to carry out a task, and her task was thwarted.”

“Thwarted,” the blonde Ellison squealed, “but, but I’ve been shot!”

Russell lowered his head. All about you, Ellison.

“Campbell was stopped before she got to her intended target,” Death turned his head, “you did well, Russell.”

“My death means nothing?”

Death’s failure to mention, or even acknowledge Ellison irritated her further. He glanced from the candle, back to Russell, “Dr. Peyton Rousseau was the intended target.”

“Doctor… Peyton?” Death spoke of the Hannah Montana clone? She becomes a doctor?

Ellison argued, “Rousseau isn’t her last name, that’s…”

Death interrupted, “Doctors Javier and Peyton Rousseau move to Ghana after medical school. They play a big part in abolishing AIDS in Western Africa.”

“Wow, that’s great,” Russell smiled.

“She marries Javier!?” Ellison scoffed.

“So does that mean I have succeeded what was asked?” Russell looked to the stoic boy with a hopeful expression. He thought he saw Death curling his lip, the faintest indication of a smirk.

“Yes, Russell, you stopped the shooting.”

Ellison’s jaw dropped, “Stop the… helllooo. I’m dead! Doesn’t anyone care I’m dead?”

Death waved his arm again. A glowing circle appeared, levitating over Russell’s head. A feeling of bliss pulsed through Russell’s body.

“The halo will grant you the power to see the light. Go towards the light.”

“What about me?”

Russell stared at his new halo until a bright light appeared over his shoulder.

Ellison fidgeted, wearing a worried expression. “So, one went to hell. One went to heaven. Where’s that leave me,” she cried.

“You’re what we call an Almost.”

“An Almost?”

Russell observed her reaction as the conversation played out similar to the one he shared with Death just days ago. Ellison slumped, facing the candle with an empty stare.

Russell leaned towards her and whispered. She straightened her posture. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I’ll pretend I did not see that,” Death said, “Russell, you are dismissed.”

Russell left Ellison in Death’s hands. The affinity to the soothing glow intensified, overtaking his entire being. He entered the kingdom of Heaven, and the dim room disappeared forever behind him.

#

Ellison snapped her head back and snorted. She must have dozed off. She examined her surroundings. A stranger sat in the seat to her right. To her left, an aisle separated herself from more strangers. The “room” was a giant sphere with many rows of occupied seats. She wiped her chin, checking for drool.

“What the…”

Her hands were aged, larger, well manicured. A black business suit covered her curvier, heavier, older body.

“I’m, like, old!”

Laughter came from all directions, then ceased with an intercom announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen we have reached our cruising altitude of thirty five thousand feet. Please remain seated while our staff provides a complimentary beverage.”

“We’re on a plane? Wow, never been on one before,” she said, facing the old gentleman alongside her. “Where are we going?”

If an expression could have called her crazy without saying a word, the gentleman wore it.

A long legged stewardess in a short skirt travelled the aisle, stopping at Ellison’s chair. “May I get you a drink,” she asked with an icy stare and monotone voice.

Second Chance 3 (three word Wednesday x 2 - figure, juicy, stress, blink, kind, occasion)

2011-02-23T15:47:00.005-05:00

Hello, been awhile, my apologies. The tale is a continuation of Second Chance and its sequel, the story of Russell's brush with Death. Enjoy, and thanks for reading.

“Why are you following me?”

The blond girl spun; her aggressive tone called unwanted attention from several students in the school hall. Russell lowered his head. As if being the “new kid” wasn’t already a lightning rod for stray eyes. He had scanned as many kids as possible without slowing his gait, sizing each up for hints of a concealed firearm or an unstable demeanor.

“I don’t know what you mean Ellison. I’m going this way too. You just happen to be going the same way in front of me,” he lied. She wouldn’t believe the truth. If he confessed she was not long to this world, she’d interpret him as a threat and he’d spend the morning in the principal’s office. He didn’t have that kind of time to kill. He knew Principal Louis Kerry from church, and though he was very personable to adults, had a reputation as a hard-ass to students. Russell reminded himself, he’d be welcomed as the latter.

The blonde blinked at him, at a loss of words but frustrated regardless. He allowed her to continue down the hall before pursuing at a safe distance. Russell contemplated his next move, giving a judgmental glare to a prudish teacher whose face reminded him of the surface of a walnut, a stern-faced janitor shorter than the mop he toted, and a gender confused creature from the cafeteria staff.

Could it be an adult? What if it were? He hadn’t the strength to outmuscle an adult should the occasion arise. Most of the male students stood taller or broader than he, now that he looked around. Why did Death put me in this predicament? Why could I just have died like everyone else? He frowned, realizing his last thought was more of an assumption than anything else.

Ellison trotted rudely through a conversation, nudged a student with her shoulder, and vanished into a classroom. Today isn’t the best day to be on your high horse, princess. Russell wondered how fast he’d be called out in her homeroom. He had no identification. No teachers were advised of the arrival of a new student to his knowledge. He squeezed between a stocky boy in baggy shorts and a dumpy girl with a logo tee shirt reading ‘JUICY’ to take a seat at the rear corner of the class. Position myself to watch everyone.

Ellison carried on in hushed chatter with a Hannah Montana look-alike and a brunette with an anorexic figure; their pointing and giggling clearly in ridicule of anyone showing imperfection.

God, I used to hate girls like that…

“Forget them, way out of your league,” the boy in front of him observed Russell’s interest in Ellison and crew. It was the boy with glasses from the bus.

“Huh? Oh,” Russell chuckled, “not like that junior, way too young for me.”

The boy raised an eyebrow before continuing, “I’m Javier.”

Javier? Does anyone these days give their kids normal names?

“Russell Ward,” the handshake was both unanticipated and weak on Javier’s part.

“Why are you so concerned about them?”

Noticing a teacher had entered, Russell leaned forward and lowered his tone, “Javier, you don’t know anyone that’s been under a bit of stress lately? Not-right-in-the-head, like, gonna-go-postal any minute sort of person, do you?”

Javier’s blank stare was enhanced through the contortion of his glasses.

Russell frowned, “OK then. You aren’t by any chance hiding a loaded gun, are you?”

“What’s wrong with you,” Javier asked. He turned to face the teacher before Russell could reply.

“I’m Mr. Donahue for those that don’t know me,” the thin teacher announced over diminished mutterings. ”I’m your homeroom teacher. I need everyone to take a seat for attendance.”

Students reluctantly lowered themselves into chairs, Ellison and her clique last to disperse. Russell watched with disdain. Little miss perfects think they’re above the law.

“Ellison, Campbell, Peyton when I say ‘take I seat,’ that includes you,” the teacher stepped around his desk.

What is with these names? Isn’t Peyton a boy name and Campbell a soup?

“One sec,” Ellison replied.

Wow. Bold. Russell remained vigilant, scanning the room. All students were seated, all eyes on the three young ladies.

The teacher crossed the room.

Russell sat sideways in the desk, leaning forward. He pulled up his pant leg and collected the switchblade.

Campbell, the underweight brunette, revealed a pistol from within her cardigan, “Don’t tell us what to do, Mr. Donahue.”

Peyton screamed.

Students scurried to the door. Ellison attempted to rationalize through the noise, “Campbell put it away, you don’t need to…”

“Shut up, Ell, or you’ll get some of this too,” the brunette scowled at her.

Mr. Donahue lunged to seize the weapon.

Russell sprung from the seat, knife in hand.

BANG. BANG.

Second Chance 2 (three word Wednesday x 5 - effect,immense,shimmer,absolve,hiss,ridicule,hint,lust,sheen,engulf,imminent,tamper,gait,nudge,ripen)

2010-10-20T12:17:00.005-04:00

It has been five installments since he last entered the ring. Miss me? (Mime hug.) I pun. I'm fueled for crumping!

...is an anagram for the 15 words I have missed over my 3ww hiatus. But I know you're not here for the anagrams, so on to the story, this is a "part two" of an earlier 3ww that resulted in many requests for a sequel. You can find part one here... Second Chance ... hope you enjoy.

“This is the school bus stop right?” The young Russell approached a blond girl he had known for years as ‘the neighbor’s daughter.’

“No I’m standing here ‘cuz I feel like it,” the girl hissed, texting in fluid motion.

“Sorry for the trouble little lady, was just a question.” Russell had long ago forgotten the art of conversing with pre-teens effectively. The glare of imminent doom told him she not only was unappreciative of the ‘little lady’ comment, but also doubly irritated for interrupting her texting concentration.

“I’m Russell.”

“That’s nice.”

He frowned, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name?”

“I didn’t give it.”

“OK I guess I’ll call you Miss Sheen.”

“How’d you know my last name?”

Russell nudged her, pointing down the road, “You live there, don’t you? You’re Dave and Kelly’s kid.”

“Kerrie. My mom’s name is Kerrie,” confusion engulfed the girl.

“That’s right, I could never get that right…”

“Are you some kind of stalker?” The girl squirmed with the discomforting feeling her privacy had been tampered.

“Seriously Miss Sheen if I were stalking you, I’d probably know your name.”

“Don’t call me Miss Sheen. My name is Ellison.”

“Nice to meet you, Allison.”

“Ellison. With an E.”

What kind of name was Ellison? Russell forgot what an immense feat it was to get information out of girls like Ellison. She was the type of girl twelve year old minded boys lusted after, texted love notes to, had difficulty speaking in front of. Russell was long beyond such angst, and his forward approach was something little Ellison Sheen was not used to. As soon as the bus turned the corner, any shimmer of friendship vanished and she resumed her proud, snobbish gait onto the bus. That’s right, can’t be seen talking to the new guy. At the least Russell felt absolved of the stalker label. Distancing himself from the ripened sweaty odor of the overweight driver, he sat on an unoccupied bench seat in the middle of the bus.

He confirmed the switchblade was still under his right sock, playing the motion off as an itch. If he was to diffuse a threat in the school, he needed something. It wasn’t much, but he wasn’t going to be the one to bring a gun into a Middle School. The jeans were baggy enough to show no sign of a concealed weapon.

“What do you plan to do with that?” A monotone voice said beside him. Russell glanced across the aisle to find the pale boy he had met two nights ago. The boy named Death.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Russell rolled his eyes.

“You are bringing a weapon to school.”

“Self defense. You and I both know self defense will be needed today.”

A boy with glasses in the seat behind Russell leaned over the backing, “Who are you talking to?”

“Oh, uh, no one. Just thinking aloud. Sorry.” Russell stared at Death across the aisle. Death spoke indifferently, “He cannot see me, only those whose time draws near can see me.”

“You shouldn’t talk to yourself. People will think you’re crazy,” the boy with glasses ridiculed before retracting into his seat.

“They’re bringing a gun, you’re bringing a knife. I hope you have a plan,” Death stated with an eerie calmness.

“It’s better than nothing. Can you tell me anything at all about…”

“No. That would be cheating.”

Russell sighed. The bus pulled into the unloading area at the school entrance. He and Death were quick to get off the bus. Russell stopped on the curb, overwhelmed at the scene of hundreds of kids greeting one another from their returns from summer break. The boy with glasses disembarked the bus, passing right through Death as if he were air, sending a shiver up his spine.

“There’s so many kids. Can’t even give me a hint?”

Ellison stepped out of the bus glaring a disgusted look towards Russell and his pale ‘friend,’ and stepped around Death towards the school.

Death squinted at Russell. Russell swallowed hard, “Ellison, come back!”

Keeping Up With the Necros (three word Wednesday X 2, demure, offend, volatile, charm, feast, robust)

2010-09-15T11:02:00.005-04:00

A cold got the best of me last week, so I thought I'd compensate for my absence with six words thrown into the mix this week. This one is for my friends Ernest, Mike, Scott, and Phil; friends of the real world as well as an online realm of days gone by, called Everquest.

A blond maiden waited patiently at the base of a granite stairwell. Her olive robe intricately decorated with runic symbols grazed the grass as she paced; her soft beauty and demure disposition an illusory shroud of an experienced adventurer. She gazed from a clock in the town square, to an unusual bickering couple. A bald man no taller than the blonde’s knees carried on an animated conversation with a sleek elven woman with flowing white hair and grape colored skin. The human blonde was clearly the mutual friend that brought these two well dressed casters together.

The gnome man flashed a shiny charm at the dark elf.

“That isn’t! Where’d you get that?” The dark elf squinted her solid white eyeballs.

“Got it from the High Inquisitor of the Violet Guard,” he boasted.

“The Violet Guard of Nethershadow? But it takes a full raid to get into that stronghold!”

The gnome nodded, feasting on her jealousy. The dark elf retrieved her knapsack and pulled it open.

“Is that the Satchel of the Red Dragonguard?”

“Oh this old thing? Yeah, it actually regenerates mana just by carrying it around. A must have. You mean you don’t have one?” Her thin face twisted into an evil smile.

“I, uhh, well not yet. I’m working on that,” the gnome rubbed the back of his head. “Don’t you need an exalted reputation for the Red Dragonguard to sell you one?”

“You mean you’re not one of their most exalted necromancers? Sorry, didn’t mean to offend, most necromancers I know are in their highest graces. Maybe you can tell them you know me. Then again, don’t. I don’t want my reputation tarnished.”

“I said I’m working on it Akisha,” the gnome snipped, looking through his own smaller plain satchel. He revealed a black metal wand topped with a glowing blue orb in an inset of claw shaped bones.

“The Wand of Seven Manticores?” Akisha yawned.

“Yes.”

“I have one of those too,” she revealed an identical rod. “Is yours enchanted with the Aura of the Southern Crusader?”

“No,” He frowned, looking at the bored human blonde that was trying to evade the conversation. “Lacie?”

“You never asked, Masren. I can enchant it for you later,” the blonde shrugged, watching the town square clock tick.

Masren and Akisha displayed shoes, belts, rings, and other objects of grandeur, attempting to one-up each other by throwing jabs like, “I’ve had this for ages,” “I sold an extra one at an auction last week,” and “I wouldn’t be seen dead with that.” Akisha summoned her mount from the stall and a rare zebrasi from the Plane of Nature appeared. Masren countered by beckoning a robust dragon whelp (with a gnome sized saddle) from the underworld of the frozen continent, Velious. A half elven young man in chainmail walked up alongside Lacie while the show-and-tell was beginning to turn volatile.

“Have they been at this all day?” The half-elf nudged the blonde lady.

“Hours,” she rolled her eyes, “Thank the Gods you are finally here, Keudar. Now we can go.”

“Not yet. Fahna will be joining us shortly too. I told him to meet us here after he visits the druid trainers...”

“What?” Lacie slouched in despair, “You mean I have to wait here longer and listen to these two?”

The bickering necromancers conjured skeletal minions and drew weapons. Keudar pointed, “Looks like it’s about to get interesting at least.”

Second Chance (three word Wednesday - abstain, halo, prayer)

2010-08-25T11:30:00.005-04:00

A sudden whirl of air startled Russell awake. The discomfort told him he dozed off in his recliner again. The flickering muted TV was the only source of light in his living room. What time was it? He peered, but the clock was obstructed by a thin boy in his pre-teens. The boy wore exclusively black, and appeared surprisingly pale in the darkness of the room. Russell was taken aback by this visitor. He was at the empty nest phase of life, yet his grandchildren were not yet as old as this stranger.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The boy stepped forward, “I am Death.”

“You’re... excuse me? Death?” Russell tried not to laugh. The boy nodded affirmative, showing no hint of humor.

“Bullshit.”

“You disbelieve me? Try to move.”

Russell found himself unable to simply move his arm from his chest to his face. “I… I’m dead?”

Unable to smile, the boy squinted in confirmation, “Heart attack.”

Russell absorbed the realness of his grim news. “Why aren’t you a big scary skull faced Reaper if you are Death?”

“Death can come in many forms,” the boy summoned a spiral-bound notebook from thin air. Russell decided to abstain from further patronizing, “So, what happens now? Do you have a halo for me or something?”

“Halo… hardly,” Death observed information from the notebook, “three counts of charity donations, but two counts of stealing... not many random acts of kindness… a regular prayer though… look at all those lies…”

“So it’s to hell with me then?”

“Not so fast, you’re what we call an Almost.”

“What happens to Almosts?”

“Nothing really,” Death lowered the notebook, “You’re looking at it. You don’t go anywhere.”

Russell was able to see his own body lying cold and motionless, clutching his heart in his favorite recliner, “But... my wife... my kids…”

Death stared indifferently.

“Death, you take many forms, why come to me as a little boy?”

“I have prepared for an upcoming event.”

“An event?”

“A mass homicide. First day of school at the local middle school. Lone gunner, goes crazy.”

“What?? That’s horrific! We have to do something!”

“Yes quite a tragedy,” Death stated, devoid of emotion, “Kids aren’t receptive to the Grim Reaper look, so here I am.” He looked down at his ‘costume.’

“When is the first day of school?” Russell reached right through a calendar that still displayed the month of July.

“In two days.”

“We have to stop it from happening!”

“How are you to stop anything? You’re dead if you haven’t noticed.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Russell pleaded to the boy.

Death folded his arms, staring through him to his corpse on the recliner. “Well I have liberty to give Almosts another chance if I see fit. Your heart is in the right place. We cannot use that anymore however,” he gestured to the cold sixty four year old body. “I tell you what. I will grant you your halo if you stop the school shooting.”

“Really? Thank you! I’ll do whatever it takes...”

Death waved his arm. Russell propelled back into the recliner and solidified. His feet hardly reached the footstool of the chair, and his clothes draped over him like a king sized bed sheet.

Death spoke, “You have one chance to save many lives. Don’t mess it up.”

The hand across his face revealed no scruff, and a full head of hair.

“Being forewarned and failing to act will get you a ticket in the other direction.”

Russell picked up his reading glasses with a small hand, and angled them to view his reflection. A prepubescent version of himself stared back. “I… I’m a little boy!!”

Death gave another affirmative squint, “I’ll see you in two days, one way or the other.” He disappeared abruptly, a clapping sound of air reoccupying the place he stood.

Shootout (three word Wednesday - grimace, phase, stumble)

2010-08-18T09:58:00.004-04:00

“All right they’re coming in. Mitch, Nick, Carla go right, try to flank them. Randy, hold the middle with me. Rich, take the others left into the brush.” Eight people in full camouflage nodded their masks in accordance, readied their guns, and carried out Jacob’s plan. The dense forest around them sloped uphill on the right. Mitch would get a good vantage point and wait for an opportunity. He was the ace sniper of the team.

Jacob heard rustling of branches from ahead of them. He took cover behind a large rock, while Randy stood against a wide tree to his left.

“See anything?”

“No.”

Tat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat…

Gunshots. From the left… Rich’s side. Someone had seen or been seen by the enemy. Jacob raised his head, nothing but forest through his visor. A bullet grazed the large rock.

“Get down,” Randy swiveled his firearm around the tree and fired towards the source of the bullet targeting Jacob.

“Can you see them?”

“I saw something move…”

“Don’t waste ammo if you cannot see them…”

Tat tat tat tat tat tat… this time gunfire spawned from the hill. Shots were flying actively from several sources on the left. “Ungh,” the grunt warned that Rich’s side was down a gunner. Rich yelled to fall back.

From the right, Nick’s voice declared a small victory, “Got him...” before tat tat tat tat… “Ou… Got me.”

Jacob peered up the hill, then to Randy, “They got Nick… Randy?”

Randy had advanced twenty feet and shot determinedly forward. He had his eye on something Jacob could not see from his vantage point. Randy ceased his fire, apparently successful. He looked up the hill. Carla had pointed out two more enemy gunners. Jacob stumbled from the rock to Randy’s first tree, scanning the far left. Rich was now alone, running backwards, shooting into the foliage. Rich ducked behind the stump of a fallen tree, signaling two fingers to Jacob before pointing forwards. Shit. They were coming in hard on the left. Rich poked his head over the stump over to receive a splattering on the side of his head.

“Randy! Randy watch out left! They’re coming!” Knowing half the team was down, Jacob resorted to regrouping for stronger defense. He had hoped it would not get to this phase, but their backs were to the wall. Randy had advanced too far ahead into the center to hear Jacob. Jacob heard sticks breaking deep in the foliage on the left. He retreated up the hill.

“Carla, they’re coming around.”

Carla covered Randy in the center until Randy stopped running, a contrast of color from the camouflage across his back.

“Shit they got him.”

And just like that, they got Carla, too.

Jacob hit the ground. Where the hell was Mitch? Jacob pivoted his line of vision. Behind him, two were closing in. Ahead, at least one gunner was over the mound of earth. He had no choice but to disallow the pincer attack to happen. He ran forward, gun extended.

Tat… tat… tat tat tat tat…

He scaled the mound, strafed right to the cover of a tree, and fired openly. His back would be open to the foes behind, he had to land a hit and land it quickly. His foe jumped backwards in surprise, receiving the full impact of Jacob’s gunfire across his collarbone. Jacob circumnavigated the tree taking cover from the two in the rear.

“Hey,” a voice came from ten feet behind him. The voice was not Mitch’s. Jacob swung his gun around, but it was too late…

Tat tat…

Pink paint splattered across the visor of his face mask. Jacob lowered his gun, wiping the visor clean with the backside of his glove.

“Got you!” It was his brother’s friend Kyle. The eyes were all Jacob could see of Kyle’s taunting grimace behind his own face mask.

Kyle extended a hand to Jacob while his two teammates came into the clearing, “Good game, we win!”

“Did you now?”

Tat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat tat...

Mitch always was our ace sniper.

As Advertised (three word Wednesday - joke, leverage, remedy; and flash Friday)

2010-08-11T10:56:00.005-04:00

“Can you get the door, honey?” Shelley shouted from the kitchen.

Shawn placed the newspaper down on an end table and moved briskly to the front door. Who could be ringing the doorbell during the dinner hour? He gazed through the peephole. A distorted image of a bulky delivery man awaited his response. Shawn swung the door open.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Gelinas? I have a package you’ll need to sign for,” he extended a clipboard with a delivery form and a pen clamped under the hinge. Everything appeared legitimate enough. The large brown van parked on the street matched the color of his uniform. Shawn passed the form back, looking around for an absent package.

“Thank you sir, you’re all set!” The large man tucked the clipboard under his arm and left the front steps. In his place, a young woman stepped forward. Bright green eyes gazed playfully under dark, long eyelashes. Her lips were full and glossed, catching the light as if they were wet. Straight blonde hair draped aside her defined high cheekbones and rested on smooth shoulders. Her curves at the bust, the waist and the hips were nothing short of majestic. She wore nothing more than a leopard print bra and briefs. Shawn’s jaw conceded to gravity. A blonde strip of well-groomed eyebrow raised and her welcoming lips formed cute cheek dimples as she smiled. “Hello, Mizzer Gelneez, I am Katya,” her soft voice hinted at a strong Russian accent.

“Uh… hi Katya,” Shawn blinked intentionally to cease ogling. My God, there was a half naked Russian model on his front steps! There are families in his neighborhood with small children! He glanced down the street; a basketball game between the neighborhood boys had come to a grinding halt. “Please please come inside,” Shawn stepped aside, holding the door open. He escorted her into the living room, “Katya, might I ask what you’re doing coming to my house in lingerie?”

“You order zis, no?” She rolled her arm as if presenting herself.

“I ordered… what are you saying?”

“Online order. Lingerie site from Belarus. Remember? You order zis online.”

Shawn jogged his memory. He did place an order a few weeks back for some lingerie for Shelley’s birthday. Of course he opted for an online purchase, buying lingerie in person was one of the most uncomfortable things a man could do. He looked Katya up and down. She was wearing the exact lingerie he had ordered! He recalled the blond in the photo, wearing the lingerie with such a sultry pose. He remembered thinking the message in the margin, ‘As advertised’ was somewhat out of place.

“You like Katya picture online. Your order here now Shawn Gelneez.” Katya winked and sat herself on the couch.

“Katya I ordered the lingerie only, not the model too! You can’t stay!”

“But Katya come from Belarus for you.”

Shelley appeared in the doorway. “Shawn, why do we have a mail order bride in on our couch?” She spoke through gritted teeth and flaring nostrils.

“I, well, uhh… you see, I ordered you some lingerie dear…” Shawn shrugged hopelessly.

“Shawn order from lingerie model site. I am Katya,” she waved innocently at Shawn’s wife.

“Shawn there had better be a good…”

“I told you I only ordered lingerie,” he scurried for some leverage in the argument, but understood how bad this looked to her.

“No need for mad Misses Shawn Gelneez. Shawn got good deal. Pay low moneys. Katya, uh, how you say, on sale.”

Blood rushed to Shelley’s head, “…and how much exactly did you pay for Katya?”

“Well it was in foreign currency but it didn’t look too expensive.”

“Twelve thousand,” Katya again displayed her wonderful dimples.

Shelley roared, “US DOLLARS??”

Katya nodded affirmative.

“Shawn you did not bother to figure out the exchange rate to US dollars?!?!?”

Shawn slouched. He knew he had forgotten to do something. He recalled concluding the order quickly when a call came in over Skype. He could not believe what was happening. He stood there speechless, glancing between Katya and Shelley, searching for something he could say to remedy the situation.

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get that,” Shawn approached the door wanting to crawl under a rock. Whatever news awaited him on his front steps had to be better than his current conundrum. The delivery man stood there once again. “Mr. Gelinas?”

“You didn’t tell me you had a model with you…” Shawn pointed accusingly.

“I have another package for you.”

“Oh no, don’t even go there…”

The delivery man stepped aside, revealing TV personality Ashton Kutcher. “Shawn Gelinas,” Ashton extended his hand. ”You’ve been Punk’d!”

Katya and Shelley laughed and clapped behind him. Ashton pointed out hidden cameras. Shawn reddened in embarrassment. His wife orchestrated the best practical joke he’d ever witnessed. And worse, televised it.

This week of 3ww

2010-08-04T11:56:00.002-04:00

The Cortez Case series has moved! Please visit this page for the ongoing story, as well as the collected past installments.

The Cortez Case

Wayne Status (3 word Wednesday - abuse, cramp, hatred)

2010-07-28T13:54:00.004-04:00

“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?”

Unemployment Rate (three word Wednesday - bait, jump, victim; and Flash Friday)

2010-07-21T13:20:00.005-04:00

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?"

To whom it may concern (three word Wednesday - gentle, praise, vulgar)

2010-07-14T11:43:00.001-04:00

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

Twisted Experiment (three word Wednesday - acrid, bane, tepid)

2010-07-07T14:51:00.001-04:00

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.

Interview (three word Wednesday x 3- hassle, inject, wealth, erase, meadow, trace, feign, virtue, imply)

2010-06-30T11:41:00.000-04:00

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.”

El Moco (three word Wednesday - hidden, noble, roam)

2010-06-09T16:26:00.000-04:00

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.

Probation (three word Wednesday - budge, nimble, theory)

2010-06-02T15:43:00.000-04:00

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?”

Applesauce (three word Wednesday - abandon, gradual, precise)

2010-05-26T15:30:00.000-04:00

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.”

Hostage (three word Wednesday - dread, grasp, pacify)

2010-05-19T19:27:00.000-04:00

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.

In the Line Of Duty (three word Wednesday - fear, ignore, weightless)

2010-05-12T14:59:00.000-04:00

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!!”

Bad To Worse (three word Wednesday - escape, hum, vibrant)

2010-05-05T14:49:00.000-04:00

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.

The New Assignment (three word Wednesday - depart, ignite, rotten)

2010-04-28T15:30:00.000-04:00

This is an effort to weave a few of my past three word Wednesday stories into one. Characters featured in this piece are derived from earlier stories "The Bargaining Chip," "Meeting Savannah" and "Maid In Columbia."

“You wanted to see me?”

Ed rose from his office chair and adjusted his suit coat. His dark slicked hair and thin features ironically gave him the appearance of a Hollywood mobster. He extended a handshake to his subordinate, “Thanks Brian for coming.” Ed departed his office and gestured for Brian to walk with him. Walking alongside his stern boss was intimidating. Brian was by no means short, but still had to crane his neck upwards to acknowledge Ed. He was not surprised in the least about the various trophies and merits Ed displayed in his office from his basketball days at LSU. Ed rarely requested a one-on-one meeting, and it usually occurred in the privacy of his office. Walking the hallways only implied to Brian that Ed’s great new idea would be something rotten.

“I’m placing you on the Cortez case.”

Here we go, Brian thought. He held his reply and did his best to appear indifferent. He could feel Ed’s gaze anticipating a response. Ed continued, “Our involvement has intensified with some recent leads. We need more man power for this case. We are closing in on our target.”

“Santino Cortez?”

Ed shushed Brian immediately, “Let’s save the specifics for behind closed doors.”

“Isn’t the CIA more equipped to deal with an international case?”

“Cortez has moles in the CIA. This case has been placed in our hands by the higher ups of the CIA themselves. We have reasonable evidence supporting the counts of kidnapping and human trafficking.”

Brian rubbed his chin, “What about Agent Arlen?”

“She is still on deployment.”

“She’s a big girl. She cannot handle this herself?”

“We cannot compromise her position Brian. We have her doing everything she can.”

“I take it I will be partnered with her then?” Brian questioned with fleeting enthusiasm.

“Actually, no.”

“Which agent will I be working with then?”

“Not an agent…”

Ed halted before a closed door. Brian stared at him quizzically. “What are you trying to pull Ed?”

“We have acquired a skilled resource offering us full cooperation in the case.”

“He’s not an agent?”

Ed chuckled at the notion, “Heavens no. I believe his interests are in line with our mission.” Ed pushed the door open and entered. Brian followed. The room was a simple interrogation scene; bland walls and cold tile flooring, furnished with a small table, a pair of chairs on each side, a trash barrel and a one-way mirror. One chair was occupied with a balding middle aged man of sharp physique. His elbows rest upon the table, displaying the handcuffs on his wrists. His lazy posture became astute and his tired face ignited with a desperate urgency as Ed and Brian entered. He spoke in a begging tone, “Please, I told you I will do anything! No prison, anything but prison! I just want my daughter back! We are wasting time sitting here! I will help you, but we need to move on it!”

Ed swung himself around dramatically and placed a hand on the frantic man’s shoulder. “Brian, I would like you to meet your new partner, Raul Thomas.”

The Player (three word Wednesday - ebb, negotiate, random)

2010-04-21T21:29:00.000-04:00

“Eric I admit at first that I didn’t have faith in your product… but you’ve really proven me wrong.” Mr. Parker changed his volume to address the rest of the board meeting. “It’s no secret our active accounts have declined, the ebb of our income has been partly slowed due to Eric’s contribution. It is a good step, but it is not enough. If we look at the graph over the last six months…”

An Asian woman across the table from Eric rubbed her nose after catching eye contact with him. Eric responded to her tease with a playful glare. He imagined lunging across the table, throwing her glasses to the floor, and cleaning the back side of her teeth with his tongue while Mr. Parker played the background with facts and figures. Her reciprocating gaze told him she could read these thoughts, and were not repulsed by them.

“Jen?” Mr. Parker infiltrated their eye intercourse and awaited a response.

“Sorry Mr. Parker,” she tuned in seamlessly to the boss’s prompt, “Our programmers and designers are working many hours to make sure our product will be complete for mid-June.”

Mr. Parker scratched the top of his hairless dome, “I know that June was the discussed deadline, any way to push it up to the end of May?”

Eric swallowed hard. The end of May? Releasing a game expansion even by the June deadline would involve a miracle! He was well aware the industry of MMORPGs (Massive Multi-player Online Role Play Games) moved quickly, but Mr. Parker’s request was outright absurd. Eric admired Jen’s ability to remain cool throughout his request, “I will negotiate with the engineers and push for an earlier release.”

The boss smiled with confidence. “Excellent. It is imperative we are ready as soon as possible. That is all I have for now. You are dismissed.”

#
Eric stepped into his office and retrieved a loose sheet from the second draw of his desk. He brought the sheet to the fax machine, when he found Jen at his doorway.

“Your little invention is quite successful,” Jen spoke with a subtle detection of a Japanese accent. Eric’s claim to fame was the introduction of an account identification “authenticator” that plugged into a USB port and served as a physical password for an MMORPG account. Sure each account had its own account name and password securities, which initially was cause for the skepticism behind his invention, but this second checkpoint provided an impossible firewall that key loggers and hackers could not do anything about. Joshua from the security department informed in the meeting that account hacking had been on the rise, and Eric’s product found itself quite popular rather quickly.

“People put a lot of time into our game, and everyone likes to feel safe…”, Eric beamed.

“How did you come up with it?”

“Why don’t I tell you over dinner,” Eric winked. Jen’s sparkling teeth smiled in flattery. He thought again of cleaning the backside of those glistening teeth. “That sounds great,” she spoke warmly.

“Fantastic! I will meet you in the lobby in a couple minutes, I just have to finish up something here.” Jen bowed upon dismissal as she would have back in her home in Kyoto. Eric completed operation of the fax machine, peered up and down the hall outside his office, and shut the door. He flipped open his cell phone and selected a fast dial option.

“Hello.”

“Hi Greg. I just sent you another twenty five.”

“No authenticator on these?”

“Nope. I made sure. None of them have purchased one.”

“They don’t all know each other like last time right? I gotta say that was funny watching ‘em all blame each other…“

“No Greg, these are all random accounts. Take them to the bank. You know what to do.”

“Fax is coming through now. Don’t worry, I’m on it. Consider ‘em hacked.”

“Good. I will check in later, do not call me, I have a dinner date.”

“You got it amigo. Peace out.”

Click.

Everyone Deserves A Vacation (three word Wednesday - brash, lubricate, saint)

2010-04-14T14:27:00.000-04:00

At any given hour, O’Hare traffics travelers from across the globe with amazing efficiency for an airport of its grand size. Planes arrive, dock, are serviced by pit crews that could rival NASCAR teams, and depart into the skies from which they came with a new cast of passengers. People of all sizes scurry beyond one another; each could tell tales of exotic places from which they came or are going, if one had the time to listen. Staring out the window of the waiting area in terminal C25 a plump old man in a tropical shirt observes a pair of young men filling the plane’s tank, lubricating the axles of the landing gear, and marking a clipboard with their progress. He slowly lowers his girth into a plastic seat designed for people much thinner than himself, lowers the brim of his hat and releases a depressurizing sigh. He retrieves a newspaper from a carry-on bag resting against his ankle.

“You have a long beard,” a small voice from the seat to his right catches his attention. He lowers sunglasses to the tip of his puffy nose. A girl no more than six gawks curiously at him, her long pigtails the color of hay. Beyond her, an embarrassed mother tugs the girl’s arm, hoping the child’s simple observation did not come across too brash.

“Kyleigh, leave the nice man alone…”

“It’s quite alright ma’am,” the earnest smile slightly elevates the long white beard. “I love children. Their innocent words can’t help but make you smile.”

“Are you having a baby?” Kyleigh pokes his soft stomach, causing him to chuckle loudly. The mother turns the color of sunburn.

“Ho ho ho… no Kyleigh there’s just a lot of me.”

“I’m sorry sir,” the mother lowers her head, “she’s been rambunctious since she left her favorite doll at the last layover. She’s just bored…”

Kyleigh’s face displays a terrible sadness with her mother’s reminding words. “I miss Kiki Belle. Mom says I can see Kiki Belle again when we are home.”

He frowns sympathetically, “I know it’s no fun travelling without your friends. Maybe Kiki Belle doesn’t like airplanes, and is hiding. Maybe you just didn’t look hard enough for her.” Though the man speaks in a promising tone, Kyleigh’s mother is disturbed that he is filling her daughter with false hopes. She is certain the doll had been left behind, and Kyleigh will only be more distraught after failing to find it again.

“Kiki Belle likes planes,” Kyleigh states in protest.

“Do you?”

“Yes. Do you?”

The man chuckles again, “Planes are amazing, but not the way I prefer to travel if I can help it.”

Kyleigh looks the man up and down, “You look a lot like…”

“That’s enough dear,” her mother prevents further embarrassment. Kyleigh retracts in her chair and begins to hum ‘Deck the Halls’.

He smiles and looks up at the intercom announcement. “…Mr. and Mrs. Kringle please report to the gate for check in.”

“Oh dear that’s me,” the old man makes eye contact with an elderly woman at the check-in booth that could only be his wife. He rubs his nose and raises his sunglasses as he squirms to a stand. He grabs his carry-on bag, “Orlando, here we come!”

Kyleigh’s mother wears a puzzled look. Did they just announce Kringle? That man could certainly pass for Saint Nick… but Kringle cannot possibly be his real name…

“Mommy!” Kyleigh bounces beside her, “Look Mommy look!!” Her daughter pulls a rag doll from her pink backpack, the unmistakable Kiki Belle’s button eyes stare back at the girl.

Her mother watches the elder couple depart down the umbilical to the plane, his jolly voice booming, “Woohoo! Spring break!!”

Washed Hopes (three word Wednesday - deviate, identify, saturate)

2010-04-08T14:23:00.000-04:00

“Those are our numbers,” Rhonda shouted in disbelief, “We’ve WON!”

Bruce sprung gleefully from the computer chair and hugged his wife. “We’re rich honey! The jackpot’s one hundred and ninety three million! I can get a Porsche like the one we saw on the highway last month!”

“Let’s buy a mansion on the coast!” Rhonda burst, hardly able to control herself.

Bruce surged with excitement. He stared again at the numbers. Bruce had three rituals every week for the past twenty years. Never miss the Sunday paper. Always visit the butcher on the way home every Friday to pick up whatever the deals were. And, always play the same lottery numbers. Only a vacation out of town or an act of God would cause Bruce to deviate from this routine.

Rhonda danced blissfully, “You DID buy a ticket this week right hun?”

“Of course I did! What kind of question is that? Marty at the convenient store said to say hi when I bought it. He’ll be excited to hear we won. Don’t the stores get money for selling the winning ticket?”

Rhonda was lost in thought, “California or Florida? I kinda like the Gulf side…”

“Why not both? We have one hundred and ninety three million dollars coming!” Bruce chuckled while Rhonda stomped and flailed in bliss once again.

“Oh honey let’s see the ticket! I want to hold the golden ticket!”

Bruce reached for his wallet. Not there. “Oh yeah, I put it in my back jeans pocket.” He searched the dirty clothes pile of the bedroom for the jeans. Not found. Bruce rubbed his chin and for the first time since the wonderful news, he was not smiling. He abruptly left the bedroom, ran down the stairs to the kitchen, slid across linoleum in his socks, down the stairs again to the laundry room in the far corner of the basement. He examined a pair of laundry baskets, nothing identified as his jeans of yesterday. He kicked and pushed articles of clothing with increasing fervor, to no avail. He sighed and ran his hand through his balding hair. A shiver of terror ran up his spine as his eyes fell upon the washing machine.

“No.”

He flipped open the lid and delved into a mesh of saturated clothing sticking against the walls of the inside drum.

“No… no… no…”

Bruce pried the damp blue jeans from the reluctant jumble.

“NO! NO NO NO NO… NO!”

His hand returned from the back pocket with chaffed shreds of paper. The numbers that weren’t washed off entirely were blurred beyond recognition.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” Bruce collapsed against the washing machine with his hands on his forehead.

The March (3 word Wednesday - caustic, hunch, sacrifice, plus all other words for the month of March)

2010-03-31T14:16:00.000-04:00

“Are you ready Lata?”

The Indian widow hunched over and nuzzled her husband’s body. How she longed for his warmth, to feel a pulse behind that thick dark beard. It had been a difficult night of mourning and Lata was weary. Poor Nanda was lost at such a young age. He had amazed her with his resilience, but the downslide was inevitable. Nanda’s strength depleted and he became ever frail with malaria’s growing hunger. Out of respect, the bald attendant avoided eye contact until Lata modified her veil. He commenced soaking Nanda’s corpse with caustic fluids. Lata bravely stared into the pyre. The flames filled her eyes with a bright brazen aura. Sati was a sacred ritual in India for an obedient widow to sacrifice herself into the flames alongside the body of her late husband. Many widows fought or fled; to Lata this was an honorable display of love’s tightest bonds.

“I am ready,” she spoke with deep conviction.

The last shards of her essence were forever united with Nanda, given to her love.

Upload Successful (three word Wednesday - brazen, hunger, nuzzle)

2010-03-24T16:33:00.000-04:00

“Hello there, young lady.”

A brunette woman with a birthmark under the left edge of her lip blinked in disbelief. “You… you’re…”

“Yes,” the older blond man smirked as humble as he could manage, “I’m Rod Stewart.” He extended a hand to the star-struck woman. She wore an expression of breathless wonder Rod was quite accustomed to. He broke her bedazzled silence, “…and your name is…?”

“Me… oh I’m sorry… my manners… I am Lenka.” Her senses slowly returned. They were standing in a featureless room, larger than she had ever seen. Thousands of people were scattered about, and yet it was far from crowded. Swing music filled the room from an unknown source. Rod recollected her attention, “Lenka. Pleasure to meet you. I’m not familiar with you Lenka. Is that your name, or the name of your band?”

“Both actually. Mister Stewart, may I ask where we are?”

Rod smiled, “Aussie?”

“We’re in Australia?”

“No, are you an Aussie?” Rod was intrigued by her accent.

“Yes sir. I am…”

An interruption left Rod’s words inaudible. A young guttural voice spoke in a slight slur, “Hey hot stuff where you from?” A hair band rocker with a long blond mane whistled and raised a bottle. Lenka blushed. Rod put his hand on her shoulder and motioned her to walk with him. “Don’t pay him any attention,” he advised.

“Who is that?”

“Hey baby, don’t be like that! Come back!” The rocker protested.

“That’s David Lee Roth. He greeted me the same way when I got here. The rest of his band is around here somewhere… they can’t stand him either.”

Rod walked towards the center of the seemingly endless room. He waved to a man with an acoustic guitar and a fringe jacket. The acoustic man with the shaggy straight hair nodded back with an earnest smile.

“Is that John Denver?” Lenka asked quizzically.

Rod nodded affirmative.

“But isn’t he dead?”

“See that area?” Rod ignored her inquiry and pointed out a clearing, sanctioned off by a chalk circle, “Don’t ever stand in there.”

“What happens there?”

The background music changed to an Aretha Franklin song. Before her eyes, a bunch of men with brazen instruments and pinstripe suits appeared within the circle. “Alright boys that’s a rap,” the bald one without any brass instructed the rest.

“That’s where we return when we’re done.” Rod greeted the swing band as they packed up their equipment and left the circle, “Hey Andy… sounding good Scottie.”

“Mister Stewart”, Lenka did her best to avoid a tone of impatience.

“Please call me Rod. Mister Stewart is my father. Do you know those guys? They call themselves ‘Big Bad Voo…’”

“Where on earth are we?” Lenka interjected politely.

“Earth…” Rod let out a chuckle, “if only we were so lucky. This is hardly earth. You’ve…” Rod gazed upwards, searching for words, “you’ve been added.”

“Is that Sting?” Lenka glanced over Rod’s shoulder.

“Yes it is. He has not been talkative much to the new blood. Not since Eminem confused him for the guy on the Dyson vacuum cleaner commercials.” The background melody ended abruptly in mid-song. Rod looked around, “Uh oh... we have a skip.”

“What do you mean?” Lenka recognized the new song as a Green Day tune. Aretha Franklin stormed between herself and Rod from the direction of the circle, “…Never lets me finish the song, I don’t know why I’m even here!”

“She was cut off… you don’t disrespect Aretha Franklin,” Rod amused himself with his pun. Lenka stared at him with a hunger for answers.

“She looked good back then, didn’t she?”

“Back then?”

“Yeah we seem to stay the age we were when we produced the uploaded songs. The real me is much older than what you see, I think I aged pretty well…”

“Rod, please explain.”

Rod gestured to lower her tone while they passed by an unconscious Amy Winehouse, nuzzling with a near-empty bottle of whiskey.

“Don’t ask,” Rod whispered, “We tried but... she won’t go.”

“No?”

“No.”

Rod distanced himself from Amy before continuing, “Look around Lenka, have you noticed everyone is a musician? That’s what this is, the world of Dop-i, a world of musicians. No fans, no agents, no bodyguards, just musicians. We aren’t sure how to get out of here. But we have Al working on that.” Rod pointed to a man sitting on the floor fidgeting with computer parts, clearly identifiable as Weird Al Yankovic.

“But, there’s people here that are deceased,” her eyes locked with Kurt Cobain in the distance.

“Yes, well they surely weren’t dead when they recorded music now were they?” Rod countered. He put his hand to his ear as if answering an invisible cell phone, “Oh, it looks like I am up. You’ll have to excuse me Lenka.”

Rod Stewart disappeared before her eyes. She looked over her shoulder at the circle. The members of Green Day had returned. ‘Forever Young’ began to play.

Billie Jo looked at Lenka, “Welcome to Paradise.”

Caesar's early years. (three word Wednesday x 2 - pulse, shard, weary, modify, obedient, veil)

2010-03-17T14:35:00.000-04:00

“Julius, on what grounds dare you state such a boastful claim?” Cicero’s index finger bent slightly backwards against a flat marble surface. Behind him sat Senator Gaius Rabirius. Though weary in his years, Rabirius still had a good fight in him, and had a generous amount of pull before the council. He was not only allowing but getting entertainment from observing his obedient defender Cicero, who was outraged at Caesar, to argue on his behalf.

Julius paced calmly on the lowered stage of the council halfshell, also amused by Cicero’s aggressive stance, “Your senator has committed perduellio and shall be tried before a panel of judges...”

“Nonsense!” a vein in Cicero’s forehead began to pulse, “Rabirius has been a loyal and revered Senator for several years, your accusations shall warrant severe consequences dare you not retract your claim!”

The bearded man nearest Julius jumped to his feet and placed his right hand upon the pommel of his sword, “Hold your tongue knave, or perhaps I shall hold it for you!”

“Titus, that is enough”, Julius placed his hand upon the bearded man’s shoulder. Titus modified his posture to a more leisure stance. Julius stepped around Titus, “Many years past, your ‘loyal’ Senator had taken the life from honored tribune Lucius Appuleius Saturninus to better his own position. I’d like to point out that attacks against active tribunal can be declared an act of treason.”

The silent audience in the marble half shell of seats rolled into several mumblings and mutterings. Julius exchanged eyes with the elder Senator; his wrinkled diabolical sneer was clearly interpreted as ‘you’re next’. Cicero’s rambling mouth was drowned out by the crowd. A clamoring gable from praetor Quintus cast a veil of silence over the crowd. Quintus peered around until all attention in the room belonged to him. With a hand gesture, he granted Cicero the stage for a response.

“What proof have you of such condemning words!?” Cicero’s nostrils flared.

Julius looked back and nodded. With that, Titus took his leave. Julius continued, speaking to the senators and councilmen of the crowd rather than Cicero, “I believe you shall find my source both reliable and credible. Good people of Rome, I ask that you appoint me as judge to this ‘loyal’ Senator. Together we shall reveal his true loyalties and create a stronger council for Rome.”

“Who are you to judge Senator Rabirius!” Cicero hissed, “You shant be the sole judge, we appeal for a second!”

Julius smirked, “That suits me fine. Now without further ado, may I present our honored guest.”

Titus returned to Julius’ side, accompanied by a graceful older noblewoman with hair pulled upward into a ponytail. The crowd fell into instant discord. Julius spoke over the commotion, “Gentlemen, a woman that needs no introduction… but our manners would be disgraced without proper welcome, Cornelia Rabirius.” Across the crowd, the Senator glared in rage at his estranged mistress.

Cicero broke a nearby vase into shards with his sword, attempting to restore some order. “You vile wench! You dare destroy Senator Rabirius reputation! I shall end you, here and now!”

Titus pushed Cornelia behind him and drew his own blade, “Try it Cicero. The council would love to watch you bleed before them.”

Julius looked to the praetor, whom had already lowered the flag.

“Order! Order!” Quintus vigorously slammed his gable. “This meeting is hereby adjourned!”

Matryoshka (three word Wednesday - amaze, frail, sacred)

2010-03-03T15:27:00.000-05:00

“There it is! The Sacred Tome of Ivos!” Annos points his bony index finger towards an ancient altar, out of place in the dead end of a large cavern system. A dusty brown book rests atop a granite pedestal.

“Do you think we were followed?” Hurst spins his agile body around and cocks a bow. “I’ll watch our backs, you go get the tome. Careful there may be traps!”

Annos smirks with confidence at his elven comrade. “Don’t worry, I practiced my lock picking and detect traps skills. I will be right back.” He perches his black hair behind his pointed ears to watch for any poison arrows or loose rocks in his periphery, and advances with a steady tiptoe. Hurst pivots back and forth, keeping an eye on his friend, as well as their escape route. A clicking sound comes from under Annos’ left foot. A whirring sound of an approaching airborne hatchet is getting louder, but suddenly ceases with an interfering clink of an iron arrowhead. Annos looks back to Hurst, “Nice shot, thanks!”

Hurst smiles, but his celebration is short lived. “Hurry we gotta go!”

Annos nods and steps up to the granite stand. The book before him is quite sturdy despite its frail appearance. Annos places the tome in a backpack and returns to Hurst, carefully sidestepping any other potentially clicking floor tiles. Hurst motions to examine the book, but Annos reminds him of the urgency to leave. They walk a score of steps before Hurst stops in his tracks.

“What is it?” Annos stares quizzically.

“Aw crap. I have to go.” Hurst walks over to the wall of the cavern and sits down. “Are you okay to get out of here?”

Annos frowns. “Bummer. Yeah I will be ok. I can sneak out no problem. Good grouping with you, see you tomorrow?”

Hurst agrees and within ten seconds he fades from existence.

#

“Chris your friend is here… aren’t you going to…”

“Yeah mom, I’m just logging out!” Chris takes a headset off and places it to the left of his keyboard. He jumps to his feet, and grabs his skateboard in one quick maneuver to leave the room. Brad waits in the living room, his red hair tucked under a colorful helmet. Mother looks on from the kitchen, “Chris, don’t forget your kneepads and helmet!”

“I know mom”, Chris has already retrieved her suggestions from a coat closet.

“Dinner is at 5. Be back for dinner.”

“I know mom”, Chris gears himself up.

“Be careful!”

“I KNOW MOM”, Chris blurts with a tone of a fourteen-year-old boy annoyed with his patronizing mother. Chris and Brad depart for the park with skateboards in hand.

“How did the game go?” Brad says in a cracking teenage voice.

“I grouped with my friend Annos from Ohio. We got this really cool Sacred Tome! It was great, I shot a hatchet out of the air!”

“Wow! That sounds like fun!” Brad is amazed, and a little jealous. “I can’t wait for my birthday, my parents are gonna buy me that game.”

The boys pick up the pace as soon as they are within sight of the skateboarding park. Chris is thankful to live just blocks from the best park in town; half-pipes, quarter pipes, ramps, pyramids, funboxes and handrails are all placed randomly in a fenced off area about the size of a baseball diamond. Brad hops on his board and skates to his favorite ramp. Chris kicks off the ground for some speed and soars into the half-pipe. Brad springs onto a handrails and rides it with ease, then lands to observe Chris. Chris turns abruptly into the incline of the half-pipe, propels into a one-handed handstand, and brings the board down into the half-pipe with uninterrupted speed.

“Whoa nice move!” Brad cheers in a pitch that is half-boy, half-man. Chris steps off his board and walks to a stop.

“Aw crap”

“What’s up?” Brad asks.

“I have to go. Are you ok to get home?”

“Yeah Chris, no problem. We can hang out later.”

Chris waves at Brad, then sits against the chain link fence on the boundary of the park. Within ten seconds, he fades from existence.

Putting a face to a voice (three word Wednesday - generate, meager, tease)

2010-02-24T11:03:00.000-05:00

Berlin. 1988.

Frank was facing a conundrum. He just signed a deal with a new artist. He loved their sound and could hardly wait to get their album on the music store shelves. He was certain this new musician would generate great revenue for the label. The only problem was, the guys were not easy on the eyes. Frank pondered long and hard if this act could bring in a following based on talent alone. They certainly would not visually appeal to his targeted audience. These guys were too old, too fat, too ugly for the 18 to 25 crowd. Frank had been around the block in this business, he knew that the pop star image was an important part of the package.

“Another beer please”, Frank requested of the spiky haired bartender. The neon light beams straying across neon clothing in the night club created a kaleidoscope of color. He turned his bar stool around and scanned the scene. Girls with their bangs teased into an attempted imitation of a flower, looked more like many of them grew tumors over their foreheads, were dancing far too provocatively for their ages with some featherheaded acid washed punks. The bass beat of a Run DMC song shook his clothing as the wandered through the club. Usually youth is wasted on the young, but these kids were living it up. Any one of them could have been from a fashion magazine. Frank wished he knew of such a club when he was their age. If only his new music deal could have half the youthful appeal of those that surrounded him. He rubbed his chin. Why couldn’t they… he thought. He peered around the club once more, this time paying more heed to the males. His eyes fell on a couple of dark skinned young men with long untamed hair falling down their backs. Attractive girls were sandwiching these men, and were dancing in a fashion that would have been impregnating if clothes weren’t involved. Frank decided he was going to change someone’s life… raise them from this meager existence and launch them into superstardom. He found his superstars. As Frank dismissed the females as politely as he could, the men glared at him as if ready to attack. He extended a hand, “My name is Frank. I’d like to talk to you guys. What are your names?”

“I am Fab and this is Rob”, the young man smiled like a superstar.

The above is a dramatization based on the facts below :

- Rob Pilatus and Fab Morvan quickly rose to international stardom and fell just as fast in 1990. Milli Vanilli’s premier album “Girl You Know It’s True” went six times platinum. They won a Grammy for Best New Artist, which was later revoked when their lip syncing went public. Their career having become a mockery was too much for Pilatus to cope with, and in 1998 he was lost to a drug overdose. (see Wikipedia search of “Milli Vanilli” for more information.)

Maid In Colombia (three word Wednesday - occur, ragged, tidy)

2010-02-18T09:56:00.001-05:00

A young maid cleans a patio overlooking the south Caribbean Sea. She leans a broom against a corner railing and lifts a throw pillow. Gently beating the dust, bugs, sand, and whatever else out of the cushion, she stares longingly at the water. How she misses home. Across that water, a better life awaits, and she is eager to return. It is a place where she can live as a slob; a place where she would not need to stay on her feet, in these heels, and keep everything tidy. How silly she feels in this costume. She looks down at her skimpy black and white French maid uniform, seemingly acquired from a costume shop. How degrading. When she first laid eyes upon the outfit, she thought Santino was joking. Do maids really wear this? Hasn’t the look been modernized, made a bit more conservative… less objectifying? This is Columbia and Santino is her “master”, he can request her to wear anything he prefers. “Master,” she hates saying it, and referring to Santino in that manner. But “Santino” is unacceptable. “Santino” is reserved for peers. And he is not shy about reminding her they are certainly NOT. She places the square pillow perfectly in a kitty-corner of the wicker love seat and exchanges it for a round throw pillow. Carrying the pillow to the railing, she repeats the cycle. She meticulously places the pillows, square behind the round, just the way Santino likes them. Such attention to details does not go overlooked in the Cortez mansion.

“Oh Fifi,” the bratty voice of Santino’s daughter Sierra, calls to her. Sierra’s voice spikes hatred in the maid, the primadonna latina walks around in clothes too tight thinking she’s God’s gift to Columbia. The maid replies in a suppressed curt manner, “C’est Monique. Je m’appelle Monique.”

Sierra ignores her, keeping her eyes and hands locked on texting. “When you are done in there, could you wash Asesina?” She motions to the black poodle at her feet. Monique sneers. Wash the dog? Are you kidding me? This was certainly not in the job description. Asesina certainly has an attitude problem. That ragged little bitch tried to bite her last two times they were in the same room together; who names their miniature poodle “assassin” anyways? Are these people for real? Monique feigns an overjoyed tone, “Certainment Shakira, this room ees almost tidy and I will wash the dog next.”

The teenager glares up from her cell phone and scathes a correction, “Sierra”. Monique smiles, if she is going to be referred to as Fifi, then she can only return the favor. Sierra walks away, leaving the canine curled on her fluffy dog bed. Monique debates which of the pair is the bigger bitch.

The dog expresses growing discord as Monique approaches. “Well this won’t be pleasant for either of us, I am sure. I’ll go prepare the bath. Don’t go anywhere.” Monique walks across the living room to a terracotta tile bathroom she had cleaned earlier in the morning. She stops the drain and turns on the water. A vibration tingles her right leg. She retrieves from her garter belt, yes Santino even insists on a garter belt, an almost unnoticeably small cell phone. She shuts the bathroom door and flips open the phone.

“Cortez mansion.”

“Very funny Susan. Status check.” A distant male voice speaks from the phone.

“Still has no idea who the leak is. He took out one of his gunman last Monday on suspicion. He’s not satisfied he has sealed the leak either.”

“Good, let them eat themselves…”

“I don’t know how much longer I can stay here Ed. This mission is really not what I expected…”

“Just hold tight Susan. Don’t do anything brash. We need you there, should anything unexpected occur. Until the time is right, we will continue to deter his suspicions elsewhere.”

“They’re having me wash their dog, Ed.”

“It won’t be much longer. Trust me, keeping you safe is our utmost priority.”

Susan sighs, “Fine, I will be their obedient little maid until further notice.”

“That’s a good girl. We will be in touch.”

“Oh Ed? One more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Would you be opposed to me killing the daughter?”

CLICK.

Prison break, whatever. (three word Wednesday - lucid, righteous, salvage)

2010-02-10T12:56:00.000-05:00

A brief intro: The characters in the following story are participants of an ongoing roleplaying campaign I have been running for the past 6 months. "Tulip" and "Wendall" are my own creations placed in the story for social interaction with the other characters, that are played by five of my friends and my wife. The epic adventures of this team continue to this day and may possibly be revisited in future installments. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy.

“How did I get wrapped up in this? One little party crash, and now I’m wanted for murder. Now my new found friends trust a mentally imbalanced babbling idiot to lead us to safety. Brilliant. This moldy cavern air is not good for my complexion for sure. I’m sorry, where are my manners. My name is Tulip Cantacross, druidess of the Cantacross elves of Fort Redstone. Well, that’s a bit presuming, I’m more of a work-in-progress than a druidess. Actually, I suppose I’m more of a fugitive than anything right now.”

“Tulip, who are you talking to? We got to keep moving,” a deep raspy voice says from further down the cavern.

“Umm, Grizz, hellloooooo! Narrating here…”

The disapproving giant grumbles unintelligibly. Tulip flips her blond hair over her shoulder before continuing, “Sorry, that’s Grizz. He’s a bit of a grump. I think he drank a bit too much rum last night. He’s in the same situation. Well, a fugitive… not the whole druid part. There’s eight of us altogether, on the run. Not my usual crowd at ALL. But, I was going with them, or I was going to stay in a nasty dungeon prison cell in the Pendel guard barracks. I don’t think so. My choice was obvious. Totally.”

A soft glow augments to a bright beacon. A handsome elven male approaches, his robe and facial features lucid from the “torch” he is wielding. The torch is a splintered inverted table leg salvaged from the castle dungeon, illuminated by magic rather than fire. The bluish aura emits no heat, Tulip rather would prefer the table leg provide some warmth with a good old fashioned flame.

“Come along Tulip,” the male speaks.

“One moment Quellonos.”

“It’s Quiglamonous.”

“Quigmonolonus. Whatever.”

“Q, just Q.” He grabs her forearm and notions forward. She moves alongside Q, “There was this big feast for this guy in the Pendel guard…”

“Sir Wilhelm”, Q interjects.

“Yeah him. He was getting a promotion or something. Anyways, he was killed overnight. Murdered in his sleep. The town consulate and some of the captains in the guard pointed fingers at the group of us as the prime suspects. They had no evidence, but we were just a bunch of out-of-towners. Easy to blame. We don’t even know each other. We were thrown into the prison in the dungeon. Well our group is a crafty team, full of dirty tricks. Long story short, we fought our way out. We took in a prisoner named Wendall and he showed us the entrance to this cave. He’s a bit of a crazy though, bursts out in laughter and talks to himself a lot. We took his advice because our alternative was fighting our way out of the castle. I’m not sure if any one of us killed William…”

“SIR WILHELM”, Q jabs.

“…whatever. I mean, we aren’t the most righteous group of people. We have a warlock among us, as well as a ninja. The guy with the eyepatch talks to spirits, and the gnome girl over there is some kind of pyro. Grizz told me he used to be a pirate, and this Q guy is an illusionist. It could have easily been any one of us.”

“I’ll pretend I did not hear that” Q states impatiently, “Wilhelm was a friend of mine, of all ours. What would my incentive be to kill him?”

“Watch out guys!” The roar of a startled Grizz echoes from ahead. Q and Tulip advance to an opening in the cavern with several tributaries leading into darkness. The stench of decay emanates out of the blackness. The acoustics of the cavern perform a deceptive ventriloquism with the sound of shuffling footsteps, making it impossible to locate the source. Grizz stands a towering 9 foot 6 amidst the other “fugitives”, and is in the center of the clearing, prying the grip of an undead from his leg. Zombies shuffle in from several sides, the team aghast in horror, spare an unnerving impressed expression on the warlock of the group. Q frees up his hands to commence a spell, “We thought the guards pursuing us were the biggest of our worries. Ready up Tulip, we’re in for a bloodbath.”

Q glances to the empty space on his right, “Tulip?”

The Protection Amulet 2 (three word Wednesday - frantic, lurch, odor)

2010-02-03T13:52:00.000-05:00

“Wat yoo hafta be worried foh, worst already happened ta yoo Pyar, no?”

Pierre slouches in a wooden chair, pensively staring at the handkerchief Dean places at the opposite end on the table. Dean rolls a confident smile across his face, unraveling the handkerchief to reveal giblets of bones. Pierre’s expression becomes frantic, “Da meeting went dat bad Dean? Wat haf yoo dun?”

“Reelax. Dees ar jus zeeken bones”, Dean holds up a drumette bone and peels away the cartilage on the nub of the chicken wing. Pierre’s shoulders slouch in relief, “Thought da worst foh da moment dere.”

“Nah brotha trust me, I was in no danja today.”

Pierre frowns. “Shame she was not wat yoo hoped foh. We could use moh talent desperately.”

Dean throws the bone onto the table and selects another giblet. “Thas jus it Pyar, talent. We need talent. We don’ need handicaps, liabilities, moh trouble dan useful.”

“But da war… could she not haf even been an expendable pawn? A sacrificial lamb…”

“I could not do dat ta Zeal, she was too wide eyed an’ innocent. Wud be like puttin’ a child in da line o fire. Wud ya do dat an’ live, well, deal wit yorself aftah?”

Pierre glares at his brother, “Yoo won’ get much sympathy from me.”

“I expected not. As foh our numbah o troops in da war, I haf sent Lyssa ta da States ta pursue sum talent.”

“Ar yoo sure about dis contact in da States?”, Pierre folds his arms skeptically.

“I haf a good notion dat our interests ar on a similar level”, Dean holds a half eaten chicken wing over a candle. The scent of roasted chicken is faint compared to the putrid odor of the trash barrel the bones were retrieved from. Pierre scratches his head, “Why Lyssa? Wudn’ it been easiah ta send a spirit ta meet yoh mutual interest?”

“Ar ya volunteerin’? ‘Not dat easy ta negotiate wit ghosts, as yoo well kno”, Dean bites into the remaining skin on the bone, now warm but undercooked. He continues while chewing, “…yoo know like Zeal, ends up thinkin’ she’s moh gifted dan she is. Either dat, or too spooked ta reply.”

“But sendin’ away some of our strength…”

“We ar safe foh da time being. Dey ar also too busy lookin’ fer talent, dis I know.”

“I wud still tayk caution,” Pierre stands, “don’ give dem a chance ta catch ya off guard.”

“Yoo ar wise brotha, always wer. I fully intend ta keep ma place a sanctuary.” Dean approaches the door to his shack, retrieving chalk from a bookcase on the way. He recites some words while drawing various symbols on the door. He continues around the room, sketching cryptic chalk marks symmetrically. He looks to Pierre, “Fraid I mus ask ya ta leave.”

Pierre looks back over his shoulder, his essence becoming foggy. He waves a fading hand, “Understood, already gon’. Til’ next time brotha.” The wall behind Pierre offers him no resistance as he passes through, leaving a rolling steam of cold that dissipates in the humid Jamaican air. Dean mutters to himself, “Dere goes ma air conditioning.”

#

Stupid. So stupid. Jill pouts in the airport with her carry-on bag beside her. Why did she come to Jamaica looking for someone she never met? Why did she listen to a message from a ghost? She cannot wait to leave, she wants to be home and put this behind her, all of it. She looks at her protection amulet Dean taunted her for. Some protection this was. Pssh. She gets to her feet and approaches the nearest trash bin. Jill parts with her amulet in frustration, and she seeks a coffee from a nearby vendor. She examines the “Departures” board, next flight to London commencing boarding in three minutes. She had better get down to the terminal. She takes a dozen fast steps before she hears, “Scuse me miss!”

Jill pivots impatiently to an elderly bald custodian lurching over the trash barrel. Holding up her amulet as if he has caught a large fish, he smiles a toothless grin, “Ya not thinkin’ o travellin’ without protection, ar’ ya?”

EDIT NOTE : here is the early installment of this story
http://jaythurston.blogspot.com/2010/01/protection-amulet-3-word-wednesday-jolt.html

The One That Got Away (three word Wednesday - beacon, grieve, kindred)

2010-01-27T10:14:00.000-05:00

The One That Got Away

Tom and Alexa share the sea,
The beacon of light on the rocky shore,
Would landmark those kindred to Tom,
Today Alexa pays the beacon no heed,
For she is in control,
Adrift without direction,
The rod discarded for a clutch of his chest,
Tom is at peace on her deck,
And Alexa will grieve for him in solitude,
For he is hers,
And she will keep him,
For herself

Meeting Savannah (3 word Wednesday - ideal, measure, teeter)

2010-01-20T14:30:00.000-05:00

A clean cut man in a suit enters the room holding the handle of the metal door to have it latch as silently as possible. He peers about the room, which appears to be an odd hybrid of a college dormitory and a prisoner interrogation room, complete with one-way glass. A small television is silently facing a worn couch. On a card table in the center of the room is an incomplete pyramid of upside-down porcelain teacups. A young woman in the middle of her teen years slouches in a folding chair while staring intently at the pyramid. He can only see the back of her long straight bright red mane as the door closes. He starts to speak but pauses upon noticing a teacup suspended in mid-air is about to be placed onto the sixth level of the pyramid. His palms swell with sweat in a nervous silence until the subtle chalky scratching sound of porcelain’s friction on porcelain ceases.

“Ahem…”, he chortles, “Miss? Miss Savannah Rogers?”

“Yea”, she speaks in a bothered tone only a teenager can master.

“Pleasure to meet you Miss Rogers. My name is Brian Hunt, Federal Bureau of Investigation”. He steps to an angle he can see her face. Indifferent to her visitor, she focuses upon another teacup not currently resting on the fragile structure. The teacup gently levitates.

“Brian Hunt. How generic. That’s your REAL name? Or am I not supposed to know that.”

“Do you have a nickname? Can I call you Vannah? Maybe Savie…”

“It’s Savannah. That’s my name and that’s what I’m called. Can I use Brian Hunt or do you prefer asshole?”, Savannah visually measures the height of the suspended teacup.

“A sense of humor, I see”, Brian scratches his head. He has not had much experience negotiating with teenagers, much less telekinetic teenagers.

“No. I was serious. You look more like an asshole than a Brian.”

He frowns, opting to ignore her statement. “So Miss Rogers…”

“Savannah”.

“Savannah, sorry, I’ve been sent to you today because my superiors have taken great interest in your remarkable abilities. We think you would eventually be a great asset to the United States if you were to work with us… of course you are a little young now, but your future could be very promising. How old did you say you were?”

“I didn’t”, Savannah hisses, “…but, I’m sixteen”.

“Yes, a couple years still, but you could really be a…”

“Be a what, a puppet to all you suits? Wouldn’t that just be ideal. What makes you think I’d want that? All you stuffshirts can’t think for yourselves...”.

Brian looks down, he had anticipated her resilience. He has successfully interrogated small time criminals and diabolical terrorists alike, yet he cannot work an angle with a high school sophomore. Time to change his tune. He pats his holster under his suitcoat, “What if I told you, you have no choice in the matter?”

She looks at him for the first time. Her split concentration places the hovering teacup onto the pyramid in an unstable position, and the weight shift causes the porcelain structure to teeter. She raises a thin and well trimmed eyebrow, “Are you threatening me?”

“We like to call it forceful negotiation”, Brian smirks in victory of earning her attention. “I’ve cracked eggs a lot harder than you Miss Ro…”

A shattering sound of the most recently placed teacup breaks his pitch. Shards fly about the room, none hitting either person. Savannah grins, “I could do that to your skull before you got that gun out of your coat”.

“Really”

“Try me”

“I’m a pretty fast shot”

Savannah curls her lip and ruses, “What’s that called when you target practice those thingies that get launched in the air?”

“You mean skeet shooting?”

“Yeah that. Are you good at that?”

“Well I don’t mean to brag but I scored highest in my… HEY!” A teacup-turned-projectile from the top of the pyramid smashes on the wall behind Brian. Savannah chuckles, and sends another projectile from her pile of ammunition. The cup soars with the speed of a major league fast ball, Brian nearly ducks in time. “What the... HEY... stop it!”

SMASH. SMASH, SMASH. SMASH. Brian retreats to the door, with his suit coat pulled over his head. “We’ll talk again later Savannah”, he shouts over the sound of the breaking teacups, then hastily takes his leave.

The room is again silent.

“Later, asshole”.

The Protection Amulet (3 word Wednesday - jolt, ribbon, zeal)

2010-01-13T14:25:00.000-05:00

A Jamaican native man of about thirty years takes a seat at an outdoor café. "Jus’ watah foh me ma'am", he explains to the elder waitress. He stares into the ocean scenery before him, slowly running his hand over his tight braided corn rows. The waitress returns with both his water, as well as the company he has been waiting to meet. The notion is not hidden that he is more happy to see the water than the caucasian woman before him.

“Dean Damasco?”, the woman smiles and extends a hand. Dean looks onward to the calm blue water without looking at her, “yes, take a seat ma’am.” The young woman fixes the skirt of her polished white business suit before taking the seat across from him. She immediately thinks she overdressed for this meeting after seeing that Dean is wearing a faded tank top and oversized bathing trunks. She pushes her brown hair behind her ear and introduces herself, “Hi, Jill Shaunessy.”

“Yes, I know who yoo’ar”, Dean turns his head slowly towards her, revealing an intricate tattoo spanning from his right cheek to his ear, a labyrinth of black ink deters her eyes from his. Jill blinks and fixes her glasses, “I wanted to know more about…”

“Aye Zeal I know watt ya want ma’am. Yoo tink yoo ar’ready ta learn”, Dean takes a sip of water while Jill processes his thick accent, “Watt makes ya tink dat Zeal?”

“I was… contacted. I mean, I had a supernatural encounter. Most people think I am a loony, but I sought you because I know you would understand." Dean squints at her; she is not the only one having troubles with accents. Jill wonders if “loony” means the same thing in Jamaica as it does in England. Dean leans back in his chair, “Right right Zeal, so yoo see a spirit an’ now you come ta Jamaica, land of da voodoo foh answers”, Dean makes a hand gesture that implies ‘Behold, the marvelous Jamaica’. Dean glares through Jill like a fox preparing to decapitate a hen, “Yoo’ar dealing wit powers beyond yor imagination Zeal. Ar’ yoo absolutely sure yoo want to be tested?”

Jill looks at Dean with a focused stare that tells him she will not succumb to his intimidation, “I am, sir.”

“Fine, did yoo meet my messenger?”

“I did.”

“An’ did he tell yoo ta come prepared?”

“He did.”

“Well, les see watt yoo haf.”

Jill pulls a necklace out from under her blazer and proudly displays it before Dean. Dean examines a few strands of dried grass woven together with dull beads and plastic toy proxies of gems alternating in orderly fashion, with small pink ribbon tied into bows on either end of the beads. Dean chuckles, to him this looks like an attempt to make something recklessly made into something pretty and feminine.

”Dat, dat is yor protection amulet?”, he scoffs.

“It’s not my best work I suppose, but I am new to this”, Jill defiantly stands behind her creation.

“If yoo will, please grab on to tha edge of tha table, ma’am."

Jill frowns and follows his suggestion. Dean extends an open hand to her and mutters some words in a language Jill does not recognize. She feels a sudden jolt of crushing pain from within her torso. Jill gasps for air but feels as if she is taking in water. Her arms flail wildly and she spasms back and forth in the chair, finally falling to the ground. Sweating and shaking, she feels as if another being had passed right through her. The spasms cease as quickly as they had begun. Jill breathes heavily, unable to focus her vision, and too weak to sit upright. Dean stands over her with a patronizing expression, “Even a simple protection amulet would haf repelled dat strike. Yoo’ar a cub among tigers. Yoo’ar not ready.”

Dean finishes his water and leaves the café.

The house project (3 word Wednesday - drain, epic, nibble)

2010-01-06T15:29:00.000-05:00

Motivation has set in. A couple delivery guys just left my house, leaving behind a brand new black stove and refrigerator. The pristine new appliances in my kitchen make the remainder of the room look drab and outdated. My eyes dreadfully fall upon my dishwasher. Though the new arrivals now match this old machine, the dishwasher has not been functional in nearly three years. I had a plumber called out to the house last year for a separate issue; I asked for him to fix the dishwasher while on the property, but due to time restraints he only assessed the situation. After dismantling the kick plate and scanning the undercarriage, he concluded that I needed to simply replace the drain pipe. Pop that out, put a new one in, that’s that. He looked me up and down, seeing I am physically able to get down onto the floor and back up again, and claimed this job was a “do-it-yourselfer”. I think he just did not want to be bothered in hindsight.

Anyways, I had let this task sit on the back burner too long. Our stove was too slow to heat, due to its age. It had to go. Two weeks ago, the refrigerator compressor stopped doing what refrigerator compressors do. It also had to go. Now here we were with two new sparkling kitchen toys, and a shoddy dishwasher between them. No longer, I think. I roll up my sleeves. I’m going for the hat trick, three working appliances. It is inept handy man versus neglected dishwasher. It’s on like Donkey Kong.

I drive to the local Home Depot, select a universal dishwasher cable, and return home with both the item and a full stomach of fast food. I dislodge the kick plate, and with a struggle I separate the drain pipe from the undercarriage. Comparing like for like, I soon realize my hasty selection from Home Depot will not match. Ugh. Figures. An experienced plumber would have brought the necessary parts with him. I don’t want to take a slimy rubber hose with me to the hardware store. It has been inactive long enough to collect mildew. Gross. I’d wash my hands but the water main is off. An experienced plumber would have gloves on. God, I hate house projects.

I sit on the floor and dwell in my newbie errors. Determined, I thump the face of the dishwasher, “This is not over. You will not win.” I retrieve my digital camera. I snap a half dozen photos, of the connection, of the drain pipe, the clamps that kept it all together, the bent part of the rubber pipe that was dented with nibble marks from a mouse that was long ago claimed to one of my house cats. Equipped with camera, the “universal dishwasher cable”, and my keys, I am off to Home Depot once again.

A bald middle-aged employee is discussing gas pipes with another customer as I arrive in the plumbing department. He seems to be blowing his credentials up his audience’s ass, “I’m certified to work on plumbing and gas powered equipment… I installed these things for years…blah blah blah.” I peer around the two men at the wall of piping. Before I know it, the voice of the bald employee speaks clearly in my direction, “how may I help you?”

I explain the chain of events up to this point, and I reveal my camera. “Ooo, pictures, exciting”, he says. I flip the photos back and forth, at one point flipping too far and quickly changing the photo back before the guy could make out the picture of the KC and the Sunshine Band concert. “I know exactly what you need!”, the man speaks with excitement and leads me over to another aisle, all the while giving his credentials routine. He hands me three items; a 6 foot portion of rubber tubing, and 2 connector “mouthpiece” things. He instructs how to connect everything together. This goes do that, that goes to the dishwasher, that’s that. Uh huh. For a second I think this guy might have been my plumber last year.

I exchange my first purchase for the new equipment and head home. I tape the new rubber tube to the old one, and, regretting my fast food lunch, contort myself into yoga-like positions to snake the tube from garbage disposal to dishwasher. Satisfied with my progress, I connect the mouthpiece parts to both ends, tightening clamps with a flathead screwdriver that I only managed to jab into my fingertips twice. I enable the water main, crossing fingers, and no leaks. I activate the dishwasher, thinking I probably should have killed the power to it before any of my dishwasher surgery commenced. Another newbie error. Oh well, I luckily avoided electrocution despite entangling the flathead screwdriver in the electric wires beneath the dishwasher. I examine my work, no leaks, even with the dishwasher starting its cycle! I tap the dishwasher, I told you I would win.

To the experienced plumber, this task would be “all in a day’s work”. To me, the victory is an epic feat. My wife agrees when she hears about my day, knowing I am typically too clumsy and impatient, and such a task would be one I would not take on alone. She proudly offers to take me for some dinner. Sounds great, this adventure has been exhausting. As we get in the car, she asks, “Do you know what is wrong with the washing machine?”

God, I hate house projects.

The Bargaining Chip (3 word Wednesday - ambush, hideous, meddle)

2009-12-30T16:01:00.000-05:00

Raul lowers himself into the exhibit room, dimly lit with only floor lighting and small sconces to highlight the artwork on the wall. Even the most quiet of steps seem to echo in the marble grandeur of the museum. Retrieving and equipping red sunglasses from a fanny pack worn off center, Raul cannot help but think how his wife told him that he looks like Bono with them on. The dim room changes to a harsh red vision, several alarm tripping infrared lasers appear along the floor and blocking the passageways to rooms beyond. He abstains from breathing to listen, no sign the museum guard has picked up on his break in. He pans his line of vision clockwise around the large room, until his eyes rest upon a glass case approximately thirty feet away. Adrenaline surges, and he can hear his own heart beat; before him was the goal, the object he had been sent here to retrieve. Sneering back at him through the glass case across the room was an Incan figurine, appearing from this distance as a crude carved stone, no taller than eight inches.

Raul smirks, though he has never attempted a museum break in, he beams with confidence as he cautiously maneuvers around the lasers. It is child’s play to meddle in a museum after hours, especially after his successes in a string of recent bank robberies. Though those thefts were more “freelance”, a South American crime ring quickly picked up on his potential and decided to make him their unwilling partner when they kidnapped his daughter Chloe. Raul has specific instructions to enter this second-rate museum, snatch a specific relic, of what significance he knows not, and use it as a bargaining chip for Chloe’s release. His fully legal daytime visit into the museum had allowed him to locate and observe the relic. This midnight visit was for more than observation, and was far less than legal.

Raul positions the glass cutting blade gently on the side of the case. The idol is clearly visible, though still abstract due to its crudeness. Was this statuette a work of art in the Inca days? Was it a spiritual model, or possibly honoring a fallen warrior? Raul is not impressed, the homage to an Incan icon is poorly represented, this statue is more hideous than flattering. It looks like a sculpted version of something Chloe may have drawn in kindergarten last year. Raul motions to catch the circular section of glass now cut away from the case, but it had fallen inward, creating a subtle clinking sound. Raul scans the room again with paused breathing. Clear. He continues, taking out a black handkerchief from his fanny pack. He covers his right hand in the cloth and slides his hand into the case. His touch meets the relic indirectly, and with a steadfast arm he frees the ugly statuette of its glass prison. The relic is soon consumed in the handkerchief, and the handkerchief consumed in the fanny pack.

Now to retrace his steps. He pivots towards the cord of his grapnel, dangling motionless near a five foot stone slab displaying an excerpt of hieroglyphics. Freedom is within twenty feet of him. How great it will be to see Chloe. He can only hope the crime lords plan to make good on the discussed transaction. His irregular strides evade the lasers flawlessly, and soon the cord is within reach. Raul secures a firm grip on the cord with his left hand, assures with his right hand that the fanny pack is closed, and raises a leg to commence the climb. Raul hears two rapid steps, and before he can address them, a billy club descends upon his shoulder. The sudden ambush knocks Raul to the floor; he gets to one knee in a scurried recovery, but the sound of the club is augmented tenfold when it meets his ear. Raul collapses to his left side, the museum guard folds his arms in victory over the fallen thief.