The Treasure Hunter - FFF #39

Friday Flash Fiction time again and our well-appreciated moderator Cormac Brown offered up a Randal-submitted starter sentence "She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was Pandora's Box all over again."
There was an added challenge this week i.e. not to write in the same genre that we did in the previous edition of FFF. To that end, I have written a action/adventure story. My last piece was a...err...ummm...not an action/adventure one!!
One final thing: this piece is just a little longer than normal (about 1200 words) - I just could find any more edits. If you have ANY suggestions, please fire away!!



The Treasure Hunter

She knew time was running out, fast, but opening that door was Pandora's Box all over again. She firmly believed that her journey would finish here, that the answers she sought lay behind this carved oaken door, but she had a sneaking suspicion that they would want more for her – they always wanted more. She took a deep breath, turned the shiny brass knob and entered the room...

###

The flight into Nairobi had been a nightmare; winds had buffeted the Pilatus PC-12 immediately after takeoff and continued to so for the majority of the journey. She had been on many flights; however, they were usually in larger, international carriers. This small nine-seater scared her more than anything she had done before. More than the men in dark suits, the constant fear of discovery, the gunfights...

The pilot’s voice broke through her fear. “Miss James, could you buckle up please? We are about to set down in Nairobi. May God protect your soul.” The pilot laughed at his own black humour. Amelia James just wanted to punch him - hard.

###

Amelia had quickly located the Jacaranda Hotel. She unpacked her belongings, took a quick shower and waited for her contact to arrive.

She wasn’t made to wait long. She had just sat down in the huge, plush velvet recliner when there was a knock on her door. Amelia leapt out of the chair and crossed the room in a near-sprint. A quick peek through the spy hole revealed the man she had been waiting for. She unlatched and unlocked the door and ushered the man inside.

“Amelia, it is so good to see you. I had been worried you wouldn’t make it.”
“Thank you, Jamil, it is good to be here. I take it you have the documents we spoke of?”

Without replying, Jamil handed her a large yellow envelope, closing his hand over hers as she took it from him. “Be careful, Amelia, they are out there, searching for you. They know you are here.”

“I will, Jamil. I promise.”

###

Amelia arrived at the airport early. Her private flight waited at the far end of the airfield and she hurried across the tarmac and climbed the stairs. As she was about to enter the plane, a deep voice made her stop.

“Miss James, how nice to see you. Would you please drop your bags and come down the stairs slowly.”

Amelia turned and saw two men approaching the plane, arms by their sides but she could see the telltale bulges around their waists – definitely armed and dangerous. They stopped at the foot of the metal steps and crossed their arms, waiting for her.

“Come on, Miss James, we don’t have all day. Mr. Arbetreth is keen to see you and the documents you are withholding from him.” The taller of the two men spoke for the first time. “Besides, you don’t have a choice. Mr. Arbetreth can be very...persuasive.”

Amelia knew she had no choice; they had weapons and she believed they weren’t afraid to use them. Without really thinking of the consequences, she leapt into the air and spread her legs, each one landing smoothly on the railings either side of the stairs. She slid down toward her would-be assailants and, before they had a chance to register their shock, she landed one foot into the faces of either man, knocking them backward and off balance. She hit the ground hard, but rolled right back up to her feet. A sharp left foot snapped into the stomach of one of the men, doubling him over and she slammed her knee into face, hearing a satisfying crunch of bones and her attacker crumbled to the tarmac.

“Very nice, Amelia, I like your style.” It was the other man, gun raised and aimed directly at her forehead. This is it, she though, I am screwed. He is going to shoot me right here. She watched in fascination, as he tensed his finger on the trigger. That, however, was as far as he got. A split second later, his head had erupted in a splash of blood and bone. Amelia instinctively ducked her head and hit the ground.

“It is alright, Miss James, I mean you no harm.”

###

Amelia leaned back in the seat, staring out the window of the plane, watching the world slide below her, replaying the incident over and over. She wasn’t sure if she was pleased with her efforts or stunned by how close she was to be killed. She decided to be proud of herself. That kick...

“Care to share what you are smiling about? You were almost killed.”

Amelia looked up at the man who had saved her life. He was tall, handsome in an Indiana Jones kind of way, and had the palest blue eyes she had ever seen. He had introduced himself as Kelsey; she didn’t know if that was his first or last name – she found she didn’t care.

He sat beside her, worry furrowing his brow. “You really are a character – but if you aren’t careful, it is going to make you dead.”

“Kelsey, I can take care of myself. I have been chased, hunted and shot at so many times, I have lost count. This morning was a very close call, that is true, but I ain’t dead yet.”

He shrugged and leaned back in his chair. He pulled the brim of his cap down over his eyes and smiled. “You are definitely a character...”

###

Amelia and Kelsey arrived in Washington early the next morning. Kelsey had excused himself - citing appointments and a tight schedule, promising to catch up with her before she left town. Amelia found that she was looking forward to that.

###

She pushed open the door and stepped into the room. She was surprised by the size and opulence – even more surprised by the sight of Kelsey, standing beside the Director of National Intelligence. Her shock must have been evident, as the Director stood and approached her, a smile creasing his face.

“Amelia, welcome, please come in and take a seat. I see you know Agent Kelsey. No need for formal introductions, so we can get right down to business.” He shook Amelia’s hand and gestured to a seat in front of his huge desk. He returned to his seat, nodded at Kelsey, who moved around the desk and sat next to Amelia. She smiled at him, feeling a rush of emotions she knew had to be kept in check – she would explore them later.

“Amelia, my team and I have gone through the documents that you have brought to us, and Agent Kelsey has filled me in on what happened at Nairobi airport. We have discussed the implications of this and, coupled with what we know now about the missing artefacts, we believe we know exactly where we should next be looking.” The Director shot a quick glance at Kelsey. He nodded once – Amelia caught it – and the Director continued. “We would like for you to continue your service for the country, and would like to offer you an increased salary and top-level protection.”

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think...”

“Miss James, the protection I am offering comes in the form of Agent Kelsey. I understand he has already saved your life once. I think he may be a little disappointed if you don’t show him a little gratitude in return.”

Amelia turned to face Kelsey. His smile was wide, his pale blue eyes shone brightly.

“Alright,” Amelia said, “I think I can live with that.”

If You Go Out In The Woods Today... - FFF #37

Friday Flash Fiction time again and this week Cormac Brown, our fearless moderator and genuinely decent chap, offered up the following starter sentence: "As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don't look down." I stopped and started this piece three times, each time going in different directions, and I hope this one came out well. So, without further (insert French word here), here it is:

If You Go Out In The Woods Today...

As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don't look down. This is my motto and what I constantly tell the groups of snotty-nosed, private school kids who were regular visitors to these parts. School excursions had sure changed since I was a kid; no more museums, science fairs and historical monuments – no, now they came to me.

My name is Luke Lashner and I am the tour guide for the National Parks, usually in charge of leading these groups. I usually got dumped with old folks or bratty teenagers – god knows why, must be my charm.

This latest motley crew of adolescent misfits arrived at the assembling point – twenty minutes late. Their teacher – a mousy man with a roadmap of veins winding across his cheeks and a nose that Rudolph would be jealous of – introduced himself as Mr. Marshall (call me Reg) and apologised for the delay. His appearance gave me the distinct impression that he was scared stiff of the upcoming walk – not that I could blame him; it didn’t matter how many times I began this walk, I always found myself taking a deep breath (or three) before starting out.

After making sure that everyone was ready – water, food and good hiking shoes – we got on our way. It would be a long day for these kids and I took my time leading them down to the metal and stone steps that would eventually take us to the valley floor. On my own, I could do it in ninety minutes but allowing for teenage gossip, talks of girls and arguments about who had the better football team, it would take nearly four hours.

Mr. Marshall (call me Reg) gave some final instructions to the group – something about not fucking about and to pay attention to what they were told – and we started down. The first few steps were cut directly out of the mountain side (as were about half of the one thousand or so stairs we had to descend) and were slightly damp and therefore slippery. I told the kids to be careful coming down and I was quite surprised when they actually did as instructed.

Boys, at times, like to show off to their mates, but these kids were unusually quiet – I don’t know if it was fear or something else that made them hold their tongues. Maybe they had been threatened with school expulsion if they acted up but whatever the reason; I didn’t hear a word from any of them for the first hour or so of our descent.

About halfway down, we came upon a rest area and I told the boys to take off their packs and relax for ten minutes. The journey down is hard on inexperienced legs and some of the kids were huffing and puffing (would more than likely blow a house down) and they accepted my offer gratefully.

I could hear voices down below us, probably on one of the lower look-outs.

Sound travelled a long way out here – something to do with thinner air and atmospheric blah-blah-blah – and I turned to ask Mr. (I refuse to call you Reg) Marshall if he knew why it was so but he was nowhere to be found. I looked back up the stairs, scanning the zig-zag pattern of the walkway but to no avail – he had apparently disappeared.

“Boys, have any of you seen your teacher in the last few minutes?”
Heads turned my way slowly, sending a tremor of unease through me. Their silence did nothing to alleviate that. One of the boys – the tallest one in the group – sauntered toward me with a lopsided grin stretched unnaturally across his face.

“He had an...accident. He won’t be joining us for the rest of the day.”

I was amazed that I hadn’t been told and told the boy exactly that. “Where is he? Did he go back up the stairs? I had a look a few moments ago – he couldn’t have got far...”

I was cut off by the boy raising his hand, gesturing for silence. His apparent authority scared me; I could feel that little vein in my forehead pounding rapidly, keeping the beat in time with my heart. My hands were sweaty – like a boy, no older than these ones before me – awaiting the arrival of his very first date and hoping he didn’t screw it up.

“Mr. Marshall wanted to have a good look at the valley – and we accommodated him.”

I found myself slowly trying to back away from these kids (not that they acted like kids, no sir-ree.) The others began to draw in around me, creating a wall around me that I wouldn’t be able to physically break through. Talking was all I had left.

“What is it that you want? Why are you doing this?”

The tallest boy took a few long strides and was quickly standing nose-to-nose with me. I could smell the sourness of his breath and the fear in mine.

“No more questions or you shall have a guided tour as well – our style.”

“I was only asking about...”

I felt a hand grab me roughly by the collar and the boy shook his head, almost ruefully.

“I’m sorry, but I did say no more...”

Community Spirit - FFF#27

Another week, another excellent challenge at Friday Flash Fiction. This week, in lieu of a starter sentence, Cormac Brown offered up four words to be incorporated in our stories. Sounded easy, until I realised that I didn't even know what one of them meant...

The four words were: Cache, Cashew, Eschew, Through. Hope you enjoy it and, as always, any tips on improvement or typo-spotting always welcome.


Community Spirit

Alice had been working for Meals on Wheels for over a decade now and Mrs. Helder, her first delivery of the week, was by far the grumpiest (bitchiest) client she had. Not the greatest way to start the week.

Pulling up outside Mrs. Helder’s apartment block, Alice quickly shut off the radio, got out of the car and retrieved the small cache of food and medicine from the boot. Alice still could not believe that one woman could go through so much in one week.

The street outside Mrs. Helder’s seemed unnaturally quiet. This was not the wine-and-caviar section of town (more the beer and cashew nuts crowd) but still, she expected to find people milling about, small children playing in the street. She studied the faded and decaying building, the paint peeling badly and more than a few windows boarded up. No wonder this was the last refuge for the elderly, desperate and poor.

Heaving open the side entrance door, her senses were immediately assaulted by the smell of piss and decaying food, making her gag. Alice could never get used to that stench, no matter how many times she came here. Taking a shallow breath (she didn’t want to risk a deep one), Alice knocked on the door of number twenty-three. She heard footsteps in the hall beyond the door and a weak voice asking who was knocking. Alice found that strange; she usually just peered through the spy-hole that Alice had installed for her on her second visit. Maybe she couldn’t see very well as the light bulb on the landing was missing – probably stolen.

“It’s just Alice, Mrs. Helder. Got your delivery.” Alice waited patiently at the door as she heard the locks being disengaged. The old lady had four massive door chains and her hands were full of arthritis. It usually took her a few minutes to unlatch them all.

While she waited, she thought about the other residents in this block; she had come to know many of them during her visits. They were mainly retirees, unable to afford to live in private rental accommodations. They were a different community to what she was used to; she lived in tidy streets and leafy neighbours, they lived in a run-down apartment block, surrounded by drugs, guns and violence. She may as well be visiting another planet.

She sensed someone behind her, watching her and she turned to find Mr. Jackson, the Gulf-War veteran, peering at her from behind the mesh security door. His face was a mass of mangled flesh and deep scars and, even in this light, she could see that he was concerned about something. He was leaning heavily on his walking stick, looking much older than his fourty-nine years.

“I don’t think you should be going in there today, Miss. Bad things are happening here.”

Before she had time to ask him what he meant, the door to Mrs. Helder’s apartment was flung open and Alice felt a hand grip her forearm and pull her through the door. Her left shoulder collided with the door frame and she cried out; not in pain but in surprise. A split second later, pain caused her to groan, this time as she lost her footing and landed heavily, head first, against the solid oak coffee table. She felt the air rush out of her, leaving her doubled-over, gasping for breath. She noticed two men in the room. Seconds later she was left writhing in pain as one man unleashed a hellish right boot into her ribs.

Rolling ever so gently onto her side, Alice could see Mrs. Helder on the couch – hands tied behind her back and a gag in her mouth, held in place by a thick strip of black tape. The other man was sitting beside her, a handful of the old woman’s hair gripped in his fist.

“Who the fuck are you?”

It was such a simple question but said with such force and anger, it felt like a slap across Alice’s face. She couldn’t find the breath to answer so she attempted to reach for her purse, to offer her work credentials. The man nearest her stalked across the floor and planted that big heavy boot down on her wrist, causing Alice to scream in agony once again.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, I can get it.” Bigfoot reached into her purse, surprisingly still slung over her shoulder and grabbed for her identification. He let his hand wander slightly, brushing against her breast and leaving it there for the shortest time, but to Alice it felt like forever.

“Alice Knowles – homecare worker.” Bigfoot looked down at her with disdain. “Isn’t that bloody civil-minded of you?” He tossed her plastic ID across the room and emptied her purse onto the floor beside her. Alice had been brought up to eschew ne’er-do-well’s and, as such, she had no point of reference of how to react to the disorienting predicament she now found herself in.

The other man, so far silent, rose from the sofa and walked to the middle of the room, took Alice’s chin in one hand and slapped her hard across the face with the other. “Interfering bitch,” she heard him declare. “Take her to the spare room and do whatever you think necessary, but make it quick,” he had directed his accomplice. “Once we get the cash out of the old cow, we are out of here - and you know what that means for these two.”

Alice felt bile rise in her throat, despair like a lead weight in her heart. Bigfoot grabbed her roughly by the hair, hauling her to an upright position. She couldn’t put any weight on her legs, pain still shooting through her side where she had caught the kick earlier. Half-carried, half-dragged, Bigfoot led her down the darkened hallway into a small bedroom. It was an elegant room, considering the building that contained it and Alice had a crazy thought that if she was going to die, at least it was in a beautifully furnished room. Mrs. Helder obviously had more means than the Social Security documentation showed. Alice giggled insanely to herself at the shrewdness of the old woman.

Bigfoot threw her roughly onto the small bed in the corner of the room, the spring groaning in protest of the sudden weight upon it. Alice felt tears come to her eyes once more as Bigfoot hit her closed-fisted in the chin, a rush of darkness enfolded her then quickly disappeared as she felt hands on her body, trying to remove her top. She fought hard but he was bigger, stronger and more determined. She heard him undo the zipper on her pants and felt him pull them down to her knees. She felt his body on her. She could smell alcohol and onions on his breath. She quietly prayed to a God she had believed in as a child, that she would get through this, if only with her life intact.

Without warning, a man appeared at the window, a finger against his lips, telling her to keep quiet. He showed her a gun, and motioned to Bigfoot, indicating that he was the target. Alice was more frightened now; what if the shot went astray, killing her by mistake? She shuddered involuntarily under Bigfoot. The man at the window put his hand to his ear, apparently in communication with another person. He took his hand away and held up three fingers. Two fingers. One finger...

The noise was deafening; glass shattered and Bigfoot spun around in surprise. The look of surprise was more pronounced when he removed his hand from his neck, discovering the blood and slumping onto the floor beside the bed. Gunfire erupted in the same instant from the front room, where Mr. Do-What-You-Think-Necessary had been with Mrs. Helder. Alice prayed that whoever was out there was as accurate a shot as the man now climbing in the shattered window in front of her. The new arrival bent down, placed his fingers against Bigfoot’s neck and stood again, nodding with satisfaction.

“Clear!” came a voice she recognised.

“Clear!” replied the man in the bedroom, who was now helping her into a dressing gown that had been hanging from the back of the door.

The door opened and in strode Mr. Jackson from across the hall, no longer looking feeble and crippled. Alice had never been so happy to see another human being in her life – except maybe for the man who had come into her life only a minute before.

“Ah, Miss Knowles, I see you have met Mr. Gibson.”

“But...what...?” Alice stammered.

Mr. Jackson placed a kind-hearted arm around her shoulders. “Never mind, there is plenty of time for explanations. Let’s get you and poor Mrs. Helder to the hospital and we can talk later.”

Alice leaned into the comforting embrace.

“Okay, I can live with that.”

Holly - Would Ya? - FFF#26

Another week of Friday Flash Fiction and another excellent starter sentence provided by our host/moderator/all-round swell guy, Cormac Brown. Provided with the opening sentence of "What do you see when you close your eyes?", I had no real idea where to take this. I hope that it is somewhat close to okay.


Holly, Would Ya?

“What do you see when you close your eyes? Take that image and make it real.”

This was the first thing Oscar had been taught about the world of film-making. He had successfully made that transition from daydream to blockbuster; dozens of awards and many industry accolades had proven that. He had since hung up his writer’s cap and become the biggest talent agent in the business. Stars from far and wide would come to him for representation; television, theatre and film actors would approach Oscar and he could make career-altering decisions on the spot – if he accepted them, the sky was the limit; if they were rejected, the movie-world would immediately know and the star would flame out. Such was the sway Oscar held.

Oscar tapped his toe to the constant ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner of his office. Not usually an impatient man, he was beginning to have some reservations about his next client’s ability to deliver. His agency had been dealing with this family for decades but this latest member of the dynasty was becoming a problem. She had been slow in generating new box-office successes and did not seem to care. A bad sign, was what Oscar thought. Something that had needed to be dealt with for some time - and that time had finally arrived.

His musings were interrupted by the buzz of the intercom.

“Mr. Nelson, Miss Wood is here to see you. Would you like me to show her in?”

“Thank you dear - that will be fine.”

Leaning back in his leather wing-back chair, Oscar propped his feet up onto the corner of his desk and clasped his hands behind his head.

The door to his office opened slowly. Emma, his receptionist, poked her head around the corner and introduced his client.

“Thank you, Emma. That will be all.”

The secretary withdrew from the room and pulled the door closed behind her. Oscar waved his guest to the chair in front of his huge desk.

“Please, take a seat, Ms. Wood. Can I get you something? A martini? Shaken not stirred – of course.”

She dropped into the proffered seat and placed her handbag on the floor, resting it against the leg of the chair.

“Mr. Nelson, I would prefer if you dropped the formality. Please, call me Holly.”

Oscar was amused by her brashness. “If you insist, Miss...sorry, Holly. And you can call me Oscar.”

Holly only nodded slightly, weighing up the offer and finally deciding against taking him up on it.

“Mr. Nelson, is there a problem?” Holly bowed her head slightly, feeling like a schoolgirl being singled out in class. She quietly hoped that she didn’t get the proverbial caning.

Oscar removed his feet from the desk, leaned forward and rested his elbows on the expensive ink blotter in front of him.

“Holly, if I may be upfront with you, I am having some issues with your productions of late and am worried about the direction your films are heading.”

“Seven Academy Awards, five Golden Globes, two BAFTA’s and one Emmy that sits in the front office...”

“That’s Emma...she’s my secretary...”

“What? No, not her - I meant the award that is sitting pride-of-place on the mantelpiece out there.” Holly jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “What, exactly, is the problem with the direction of my films?”

“Well, for one thing, the casting has been a little - how shall I put this? – Uninspired. It has been seven years since your last major award and I am beginning to get a little concerned.”

Holly raised her eyebrows questioningly, daring him to continue.

“Let me give you an example. Richard Thomas is a wonderful character actor and is very popular, but to put him in a film with Bobbi “Big Boobs” Bracken was a bit of a mistake, I’m afraid. That’s why it was a flop. You can’t just sign big-time actors for any old film and expect them to carry it.”

“It was big in the Czech Republic...”

“Yes, that’s true, but so are Skoda and who in the hell wants one of those parked in their living room?”

“Well, what about The Greatest Story Ever Narrated? That was a great film; big cast, multiple camera angles and big budget. What about that one?”

“It made nineteen thousand dollars...but that was only in candy sales. Who knew that Maltesers would have been so popular for throwing at the projectionist? But I guess that the paying public had to find something to do for three and a half hours. Peter Jackson you are not!”

Holly was starting to get a little agitated. “But I have a huge film in production now. One of the most famous directors in the world has been working on this for years...”

Oscar had known she was going to pull this certain rabbit from her hat. It was the same tired argument from their entire clientele. The next one is going to be it, the next big thing...

“That is true. You do have this film, currently in post-production - where it has been, incidentally, for the last three years. However,” he said, standing now, “I cannot afford to keep pumping money into a film that has so far taken more than a decade – in filming time alone; countless millions of sponsors’ dough and the biggest plot hook you have come up with is a bunch of little green fucking monsters running around for no apparent reason. What the fuck is that all about?”

“But the special effects are awesome...” Holly’s cheeks were beginning to blush from anger and frustration.

“Holly, let me put it to you like this: to recoup the money my company has spent on this film - and working on the current price of cinema tickets – every person in the world would have to watch this film...six fucking times.”

“But Mr. Nelson, you’re just not seeing the big picture...”

“Frankly, my dear Holly, we’re not seeing it at all, and probably never will. I hate to say this but I am going to have to let you go. No hard feelings and all that. Just business, you know how it is? No business like it – show business.”

Rising from her seat, Holly withdrew a shiny .44 Magnum from her handbag and pointed the business end at Oscar.

“It seems like we have a bit of a problem here, Mr. Nelson. I may not be Peter Whats-his-name, but I am closer to Harry Callahan, I believe.” Holly stared at Oscar for a moment, ready to pull the trigger.

“My dear girl, I think you may be over-reacting just a tad. Not to mention being slightly melodramatic. You just don’t seem to have the...”

Without warning, Oscar dropped and rolled, hitting the floor and grabbing the Buntline Special that Kevin Costner had presented to him after scoring him a fine deal. Peering around the corner of his desk, Oscar saw Holly pull back the hammer on her pistol. Ducking as low as he could, he covered his head and waited for the explosion.

Opening up a Magnum inside any office was bound to be bloody noisy, but inside Oscar’s office, it was cacophonous. His ears ringing, his eyes watering, Oscar jumped up levelled his gun at Holly.

“Would you mind standing still? I am having a hard time focussing on you.”

Holly rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Where the hell are you? When I can see better, I am gonna – how do they say it in those tacky gangster movies? – pop a cap in your ass?”

The office door flew open and Emma raced in.

“What in the blue hell is going on in here? Sounded like gunshots.” Emma gasped at the sight of Oscar’s desk. “And what the hell happened to your desk?”

“If it sounded like gunshots, Blondie, then there is a good chance it was.” Holly, still seemingly disoriented, swung around towards the sound of Emma’s voice. “You have one chance to get out of Dodge alive or I am gonna give you lead poisoning.”

Emma needed no further encouragement. As quick as she had entered, she had gone. Lucky for her, as it turned out as Holly let loose another hellish explosion of gunfire, taking a sizeable chunk from the doorframe where Emma had been standing.

“...and stay out!”

Oscar had used this distraction to come around the desk and stand immediately behind Holly. Edging up closer to her, he placed the barrel of the Buntline against her ear and whispered, ever so softly, “Bang!”

***

Oscar Nelson sat in his leather chair, feet up on what remained of his office furniture and re-read the contract annulment with Holly Wood. He laughed to himself – in nervous relief, if the truth be told – and wondered what exactly had happened. In the end, he supposed, all’s well that ends well. Reasonably well. Partially okay, even.

“And to think, that Buntline was only a replica...”

“Sorry, boss,” came the reply from Emma.

“Never mind, was just talking to myself. By the way, on your way out tonight, can you throw that Emmy in the trash compactor out back?”

Jack Was Here - FFF #22

This week at Friday Flash Fiction, just for something different, Cormac offered us up four words, to be included in our stories, rather than a starter sentence. These words were Panic, Manic, Organic and Non-corrosive. A different challenge but one I was happy to take up. My story is below.


Jack Was Here

Carrie stood in the doorway; well-tanned arms resting on her well-rounded hips. Her posture announced to anyone unfortunate enough to pass her that she was in a foul mood. Her alabaster skin seemingly shimmered in the light cast by the single lacklustre bulb that lit the hallway and threw indistinct shadows on the walls around her. Dressed only in a negligee, pert breasts straining against the white satin, she was the epitome of the phrase all dressed up with no one to blow.

***

She had made his acquaintance downstairs at the blackjack table, where he had been throwing fifty dollar chips around like a child would throw bread crumbs to ducks. She had always been a sucker for a man with some coin so she had eased up next to him at the table, surreptitiously rubbing her bosom across his arm to capture his attention. And capture it she did, if only for a moment. He sized her up in an instant before returning his interest to the game before him.

“What’s the matter, Sugar, don’t like what you see?”

“Darlin’, you look mighty fine but can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?” was his only reply. He barely even glanced her way, his attention solely focussed on the cards in his hand.

“I can see you are in the middle of something,” she had answered, “but wouldn’t you rather be in the middle of something else.” Carrie fluttered her eyebrows like she had seen some of the older girls do. She also added a few seductive deep breaths – another trait she had learned from the long-termers. On the spur of the moment, she had taken one of his hands and placed it against her bosom.

“What do you think of them?” she had whispered into his ear.

He hastily withdrew his hand. “I think they are a magnificent pair, but nowhere near as good as the pair I have in my other hand.”

Carrie had stared at him. “Oh, you men, you always have something else clouding your brains when you are gambling. Don’t you think I am pretty?” Carrie flashed him a come-hither look, pouting and gyrating against his hip. “Don’t you want some of this? Wouldn’t you like to accompany me to my quarters later and we can get to know each other just a little better? Here, let me start: my name is Carrie. See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“The difficulty isn’t the issue here, Carrie...that’s what you said you’re name was, am I correct?” Without waiting for confirmation, he continued. “You have come down here, dripping with sexual intentions and interrupting what had been a profitable evening. No, it’s a matter of manners, dear woman. I never said I wasn’t interested – just that I was otherwise engaged.”

Carrie leapt on that remark like a shearer on a sheep. “So, you are interested in a little getting-to-know-you session, then? That makes me so happy.” Carrie ran the tip of her index finger across her lipstick-laden bottom lip. “Come and make me even happier, sugar.”

“It doesn’t appear that I will be able to say no to you, so, let me finish up here and I will meet you upstairs.” He bedazzled her with a smile full of perfectly white teeth. The casino was open all night and he didn’t plan on being with her for the duration.

“That would be wonderful. I am in Room 16. Look forward to getting to know you more...umm...”

“Jack, the name is Jack.”

***

Carrie now observed Jack sauntering up the hallway toward her. Her anger at his dilly-dallying had abated, sensing that he had made himself a bit of a profit; money that she could easily relieve him of if things went according to plan.

“I thought you must have had a moment of panic and contemplated making a run for it, Sugar.” Carrie said, casually extending her arms towards him. “I had hoped the tables would not have been too much of a lure for you. You were attacking those cards like a maniac.”

“Not a maniac, sweetie. It is true that the lights and sounds excite me and that I zone out into some sort of a manic state when the dice or cards are in front of me, but that certainly doesn’t make me a maniac.”

“Yeah, whatever, honey,” Carrie replied, inching closer to him, until the bare skin of their arms touched, setting of a thrill in Carrie that she couldn’t describe. Something about his character was drawing her; his reckless nature at the tables, his obvious wealth, and his unbeatable good looks. But what really did it for her was the obvious bulge beginning to appear in the front of Jack’s pants.

“Shall we go inside and take care of that?” She asked him, smiling impishly, nodding into the room the whole time. “I may not be a doctor but I know a sure-fire way of bringing down that swelling.”
Carrie followed Jack inside. She noticed as he brushed past that he was carrying a half-full bottle of Evian. Good thinking, Sugar, she thought to herself, you’re going to need to keep your fluids up. We are gonna sweat up a storm tonight.

“Why don’t you put that bottle down and make your hands more useful? I sure could use a bit of a squeeze in the all right places, if you know what I mean?”

Removing his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt, Jack held the bottle out to Carrie. “Fancy a bit of Dutch courage – not that you really need it?” A grin broke out on Carrie’s face as she took the proffered bottle from his hand.

“Shit, Jack, this smells weird. What the hell is it, baby?”

“That is one of the most expensive gins in the entire world. It is awfully costly but I figured that if you were going to offer up to me your own heady wine, I could do nothing but reciprocate.”

Carrie shrugged her shoulders, tipped the bottle back and took a large swig of the contents. Immediately, she started to gag and gasp for air. Her face contorted in agony. She started clawing at her throat, her long nails peeling layers of skin until blood started to stream down her neck and onto her chest, staining her elegant camisole.

“Actually, I may have lied to you, Sugar,” Jack said, sarcasm dripping heavily from each word, “As a matter of fact, that is sulphuric acid – one of the more nastier liquids going around. I used to deal with the non-corrosive stuff but it just didn’t have the same zing, if you know what I mean?” Jack stared at the writhing form on the floor; vomit and blood quickly staining the plush white rug beneath. “My God, girl, don’t you watch the news broadcasts? There is a serial killer in town and you continue to offer your services – such as they are – to any man who looks your way. I know your type and I know that you had lied to me about your intentions. You wanted to do me out of my winnings and that’s fine – as far as it goes.”

Jack glanced a final time at Carrie.

“Unfortunately for you, this isn’t as far as it goes. The next step – and the beauty of this method - is to wait for the acids to reduce your earthly body back down to an organic matter, which then simply gets returned from whence it came – in your case, probably a garbage tip or a swamp. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

Jack dipped his finger in the decaying matter that was once Carrie and roughly daubed his calling card on the wall:

“Jack Was Here.”

Someone Hand Me The Extractors...

He looked at the tooth in his hand and shuddered. He couldn’t believe it had come to this. Such lengths he now went to, just to stay above the poverty line. There has to be more to it than this, he thought, this can’t be what I have become.

***

Finishing ‘school’ had been a major achievement in his life. Various family members had tried – and failed, all for various reasons; too difficult, too demanding, too disgusting. He, too, had almost pulled out after the second-to-last course. There was something not quite right about putting your hands in someone’s mouth. But he got through it alright, and graduated with extremely good marks and his diploma to go on the wall at home.

Following grad school, he had been employed in multiple locations around the world; Texas, Beijing, Melbourne and Paris, to name a few. But he found the work dull and mundane, even though he made quite a decent living from it. Then came the big squeeze. All of the employees were forced to make a quota every week, which at first hadn’t been too demanding but with the amount of employees that were involved in the company, things slowly became a bit tougher. Keeping ahead of the game was getting harder by the week.

Worse was unfortunately to follow. He got into a nasty fight with a fellow employee over the last job in Venice, which lead to his arrest and imprisonment. He was promptly shown the door by his boss, claiming that the company didn’t need that kind of publicity and that he had signed a pre-employment document stating that he agreed that the company had the right to dismissal on grounds of felony crimes. His days with the corporation were over.

Since his release from prison, he had not been able to find steady work as the only job he was qualified for was run by only one company, and he had no chance of being accepted by them again. So he did the only thing he knew how – he went independent; a mercenary, if you will. But even that wasn’t entirely profitable. He found some extra work in the poorer parts of European towns, where his previous workmates wouldn’t dare to tread, but these jobs soon dried up. He was only left with one option: take what wasn’t his to take.

So, here he found himself, standing in the rain on a balmy evening in the middle of Madrid, staring at the tooth in his palm. It was a good tooth; a strong tooth, as it had turned out. But for renegade tooth fairies, every single molar and incisor is up for grabs.


(This piece came from a Friday Flash Fiction starter sentence that wasn't used, so I thought I would give it a go. Hope you liked it.)

The Devil's In The Details - FFF #20

My first attempt at taking part in Friday Flash Fiction, currently hosted by Cormac Brown. The premise is simple. We are provided with an opening sentence on Friday and post a story or poem by the following Tuesday. So, here is my piece, entitled "The Devil's In The Details". The starter sentence is in italics.



The Devil’s In The Details

His life would have been a lot simpler if he'd just said no. Not that I am the easiest person to say no to. I can be very persuasive; I could tell you some damn scary stories about what I have made people agree to through the ages. I can sense your disbelief and hesitancy to believe what I am saying. Do I have to prove this to you?

Oh, very well.

Are you comfortable?

Let me give you just one example...

George Tarpin was a frequent visitor to the Donny’s. Every afternoon after work, he would come in the front door, usually accompanied by a few workmates and pull up a chair at the bar and order a beer. He drank Cooper’s Light; not enough alcohol content to stop him from driving home but enough to help wear off the rigours of the day - working in the high-rise office block and staring at clients tax records was enough to make George thirst for a drink. He generally appeared to be a happy and content man. As happy as he could be, being an accountant and all.
The day I met George, he bustled in alone, looking agitated and ordered himself a full-strength brew. He threw his briefcase on the corner table and put his head in his hands. This got my attention and aroused my natural curiosity. I continued to observe his unusual demeanour; he seemed stressed and was drinking far heavier than normal. His usually wrinkle-free attire of button-down shirt and business suit was crumpled and dirty. He raised his head again and I saw he was also unshaven. His lips moved soundlessly and he bowed his head once again. He began alternately nodding and shaking his head, as if having an internal argument with himself (which he was).

Did I mention I can read minds? Obviously not, judging by that mental frown you are currently wearing (I told you I could read minds – it’s what we demons do). Just take my word for it.

Good for you.

Anyway, back to the story. George was deep in thought...

I made my way over to George’s booth and introduced myself. George stared up at me through red eyes and nodded towards the seat opposite. I sat down slowly, never taking my eyes from him. We spoke about a lot of things that day - many things which I can’t divulge to you – it’s not just lawyers who have confidentiality issues (and, just for the record, lawyers are demons too. Makes sense when you think about it. Go on, think about it.)

“George – I can call you George, right? I couldn’t help but notice you, George. I have seen you come into this place most afternoons. You are always upbeat and in a good frame of mind. Don’t ask me how I know that, you wouldn’t want to know the answer.”
George stared blankly across the table. He simply nodded in acceptance, and I took that as an invitation to continue.
“Now, George, it appears that something is decidedly wrong and I wish to offer my assistance.”
“There is nothing you can do.” It came out as a whisper and I nearly missed it.
“See, that’s the thing, George, I think I can.” I flashed him my Better-The-Devil-You-Know smile. “I think I can help you a lot. Would you like my help?” I sat back, arms open in a gesture of well, what do you say?
George’s eyes swam into focus, as if seeing me for the first time. “What do you mean? How can you help? She is sick, dammit, and there is nothing that the doctor’s can do.” A pause here, a silent sob then he continued. “I don’t know who you are or how you think you can help.”
I reached across the table and put my hand on this forearm. “George, all I will say is that I can fix this problem. I can make it go away. All I need is your permission. All you have to do is say yes.”

***

I waited until George and I had finished the meal we had ordered to celebrate our new agreement before returning to the business at hand. He still seemed a little wary but I think he realised he had no choice (or maybe it would be better to say he had no other options – either way, he was screwed without me). While we ate, we spoke about his wife’s cancer and how it was going to be hard to keep working and still raise his young daughter. We spoke about his wife being unable to have any more children after the birth of the daughter, and how he now realised the blessing he had been given with her arrival.

When we got back to the agreement, I whipped a piece of paper out of my top pocket (here’s one I prepared earlier) and spread it flat against the wooden top of the diner’s poor excuse for an eating surface. The bottom section of the page was folded under. George looked up at me in surprise.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Just the standard form, stating your particulars and setting out the list of services I will provide. Also, at the bottom of the page is the confirmation of the charges and costs to you for me to provide said service. It’s all very plain and ordinary. Just wanted to show you – part of the rules.”
“But...but...where did it come from?”
“Didn’t you get my email?” I replied, trying hard to keep that evil smirk from appearing on my face – which is my normal face but let’s not split hairs here, shall we?.
“No...I didn’t...what email?”
“Never mind that now. All the information you need is contained in this...contract.” (I hate that word – it sounds so...lawyerly.)

It took a few minutes for George to read through the particulars. He seemed agreeable, for the most part. He suddenly sat bolt upright, hands trembling and a sweat rapidly breaking across his forehead.
“What the hell is this?”
“What would that be, George?” I asked casually, knowing full well what he was referring to.
“These so-called charges. I won’t pay it. They are ridiculous and, well, sick. I will not do that to my daughter. I will not.”
I shook my head slowly, waiting to see if the reality of the situation would sink in. It didn’t. I may have to produce the match-winning field goal (I love football metaphors).
“That’s it. The deal is off. I don’t agree to this shit. There is nothing you can do to change my mind. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be going – and I hope to never see your fucking face again. You can take your contract and shove it up your...”
“Just a minute, George. Before you go, may I show you just one more thing?”
George spun around quickly, his head snapping towards me.
“What is it?”
“This,” I replied and unfolded the bottom section of the contract. (Standard operating procedure, naturally. No withholding information here.)
George’s face seemed to sag as he asked me the question that he surely knew the answer to. “What is it?”
I gave him my game-winning smile. “That, George, is your signature. Don’t you recognise it?”