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29 July 2005
14 July 2005
13 July 2005
Subjective Time
Feel like the day is passing you by? DON'T move your EYES! More here.
For all you lovers of Drew Kurtis, FARK party at the SD ComiCon Saturday 7/16/2005 at the Rock Bottom.
see you there. X
For all you lovers of Drew Kurtis, FARK party at the SD ComiCon Saturday 7/16/2005 at the Rock Bottom.
see you there. X
12 July 2005
Summer; a dangerous transfer; transformation; NYC adventure
Memories of the past summer were still fresh in her mind. Sulking down the boardwalk, her mother turning, hands on her hips, to look pleadingly at her husband, seeking his consent, his approval as she caught her breath from her tirade. Seemingly oblivious, the man puffed on his cigar, laughing with the newly met neighbor, a welder from Arizona, down with his family, one fence over. Their daughter had snuck out the night before, and she had tracked her down for two hours, creeping along in the family’s car, listening for her daughter’s laugh, asking passers-by if they had seen her. Nothing. Then ... in an alleyway, she had found her. Pressing some smaller boy up against a stucco wall, seemingly oblivious.
The girl, Sally, was mad that they had waited until dark to let her out of the house. They had kept her in one of the rooms all day, where she had tended after her cousin who had come down with the flu. It hadn’t been so bad, not at first. She had always liked her cousin, and got along with her great, but had been longing for sun sand and boys for weeks in school. Now, with the sun setting over the Pacific, she herded her younger siblings around a slender puddle, hugging the wall to allow a rapidly approaching figure pass. Tall, might be, ok verified cute, but no, I have to babysit these four, this sucks, maybe he’ll ... oh my god. Nice eyes, was he smiling? A tiny smile, so small, but a flash of understanding in his eyes, playfulness, and compassion for me in this my terrible fate. Now, let’s not get too dramatic. How can I get out of this next year?
He didn’t even feel the data transfer. Wasn’t supposed to, especially not walking past the Lincoln memorial in broad daylight. Oh wait, there it was, a scratching, in his lungs, like an oncoming, bad cough. Hacking, he began to make himself invisible. Not in the literal sense, but to the degree that anyone who knew him, who would be looking for him, heck who was probably already looking for him now, would have a very hard time recognizing him. After walking east, randomly, for about two miles, the man had thrown himself down a flight of stairs, badly spraining an ankle in the process, ripped his shirt, and purposefully fallen into in a stagnant brown puddle out behind a $Dollar$ Chinese restaurant. He had traded his jacket and five bucks for a tattered parka an old street bum had been sitting on. Limping, smelling of rotting cooking oil and rat shit, long hair disheveled, clothing torn and tattered, he forced back a smile. A handful of dirt caked his otherwise clean, healthy teeth, and pen ink would have to do until he got into New York City to make the transfer.
The man had a small time window before the courier, an older, nondescript Hispanic man, who had looked at him with eyes screwed against a sudden gust of cool wind, sold his description and whereabouts to the D.C. criminal underworld. In the meantime, a virus that contained strands of DNA was at the moment writing those strands onto the vast uncoded portions of his 18th chromosome, sinking them like shipwrecks into a sea of “COPY ME” viruses. Not only was the specific location of the information, now part of his DNA, known to only three people on the planet, but a special RNA protein compound was needed to extract the information, and only a handful of labs were capable of even attempting to manufacture it.
If you wanted to transfer data, across town or the globe, without virtually anyone being able to locate, track or extract it, this method was ne plus ultra. The only problem was that it was ridiculously expensive.
The price was worth it, considering the value of the data contained. As soon as the inhaled virus hit, it had imbedded critical segments of the DNA one hundred world leaders into the “COPY-ME” wasteland on chromosome 18. Data in hand, a competent and ruthless group of people could engineer diseases that would kill these people more or less quickly. Ransoms monies, blackmail, the whole deal.
But to entrust this information to one person, or even a handful of persons, had seemed foolish and arrogant. That is why they had piggybacked it onto a common cold virus, and a pretty nasty one at that. Let the cold spread, only a few people knew what it truly contained. They would still track the four original
The two men had met halfway up the stairs of a Metro entrance, at exactly the agreed upon time. Javier had asked him for a cigarette in his limited English, accepted the man’s lighter, and handed it back along with a sleek inhaler he had taken from his right jacket pocket. He had immediately returned the hand to his pocket, where his sweaty palm had gripped the cheap red plastic handle of a Chinese knockoff SAS flechette pistol.
There was a single charge in the inhaler, he knew, from what he could tell on the miniature readout display. With empty eyes he watched the man take his hit, and took back the inhaler. Turning, he walked down the stairs, extinguished his cigarette, running to catch an approaching train that would take him to the next station. His man waited there, in a van outside, with a cellphone, a steel box, a vial of phosphorus, and a change of clothes.
Sally had convinced her parents to send her to summer camp, one she had not been to yet. She had also convinced a poor girl she had met at the mall, who shared her build, but not her looks, to go in her stead. The poor girl had agreed at five hundred dollars, which she had withdrawn from checking. Three of her friends had arranged to ditch their parents that week as well, and the four of them were going to visit some seniors they had run into at the mall, who were crashing at one of their brothers’ lofts in the City.
She had gotten separated from her friends, somewhere north of Union Square, on their way back to the loft. Their laughter echoed off the canyon like walls, as her world began to spin. Suddenly on hands and knees, she came to puking expensive alcohol through the heavy grates in the diffuse blackness below. Looking to her right, she realized the pile she thought was garbage was instead a man, very close to her, who was getting ready to sneeze.
The girl, Sally, was mad that they had waited until dark to let her out of the house. They had kept her in one of the rooms all day, where she had tended after her cousin who had come down with the flu. It hadn’t been so bad, not at first. She had always liked her cousin, and got along with her great, but had been longing for sun sand and boys for weeks in school. Now, with the sun setting over the Pacific, she herded her younger siblings around a slender puddle, hugging the wall to allow a rapidly approaching figure pass. Tall, might be, ok verified cute, but no, I have to babysit these four, this sucks, maybe he’ll ... oh my god. Nice eyes, was he smiling? A tiny smile, so small, but a flash of understanding in his eyes, playfulness, and compassion for me in this my terrible fate. Now, let’s not get too dramatic. How can I get out of this next year?
He didn’t even feel the data transfer. Wasn’t supposed to, especially not walking past the Lincoln memorial in broad daylight. Oh wait, there it was, a scratching, in his lungs, like an oncoming, bad cough. Hacking, he began to make himself invisible. Not in the literal sense, but to the degree that anyone who knew him, who would be looking for him, heck who was probably already looking for him now, would have a very hard time recognizing him. After walking east, randomly, for about two miles, the man had thrown himself down a flight of stairs, badly spraining an ankle in the process, ripped his shirt, and purposefully fallen into in a stagnant brown puddle out behind a $Dollar$ Chinese restaurant. He had traded his jacket and five bucks for a tattered parka an old street bum had been sitting on. Limping, smelling of rotting cooking oil and rat shit, long hair disheveled, clothing torn and tattered, he forced back a smile. A handful of dirt caked his otherwise clean, healthy teeth, and pen ink would have to do until he got into New York City to make the transfer.
The man had a small time window before the courier, an older, nondescript Hispanic man, who had looked at him with eyes screwed against a sudden gust of cool wind, sold his description and whereabouts to the D.C. criminal underworld. In the meantime, a virus that contained strands of DNA was at the moment writing those strands onto the vast uncoded portions of his 18th chromosome, sinking them like shipwrecks into a sea of “COPY ME” viruses. Not only was the specific location of the information, now part of his DNA, known to only three people on the planet, but a special RNA protein compound was needed to extract the information, and only a handful of labs were capable of even attempting to manufacture it.
If you wanted to transfer data, across town or the globe, without virtually anyone being able to locate, track or extract it, this method was ne plus ultra. The only problem was that it was ridiculously expensive.
The price was worth it, considering the value of the data contained. As soon as the inhaled virus hit, it had imbedded critical segments of the DNA one hundred world leaders into the “COPY-ME” wasteland on chromosome 18. Data in hand, a competent and ruthless group of people could engineer diseases that would kill these people more or less quickly. Ransoms monies, blackmail, the whole deal.
But to entrust this information to one person, or even a handful of persons, had seemed foolish and arrogant. That is why they had piggybacked it onto a common cold virus, and a pretty nasty one at that. Let the cold spread, only a few people knew what it truly contained. They would still track the four original
The two men had met halfway up the stairs of a Metro entrance, at exactly the agreed upon time. Javier had asked him for a cigarette in his limited English, accepted the man’s lighter, and handed it back along with a sleek inhaler he had taken from his right jacket pocket. He had immediately returned the hand to his pocket, where his sweaty palm had gripped the cheap red plastic handle of a Chinese knockoff SAS flechette pistol.
There was a single charge in the inhaler, he knew, from what he could tell on the miniature readout display. With empty eyes he watched the man take his hit, and took back the inhaler. Turning, he walked down the stairs, extinguished his cigarette, running to catch an approaching train that would take him to the next station. His man waited there, in a van outside, with a cellphone, a steel box, a vial of phosphorus, and a change of clothes.
Sally had convinced her parents to send her to summer camp, one she had not been to yet. She had also convinced a poor girl she had met at the mall, who shared her build, but not her looks, to go in her stead. The poor girl had agreed at five hundred dollars, which she had withdrawn from checking. Three of her friends had arranged to ditch their parents that week as well, and the four of them were going to visit some seniors they had run into at the mall, who were crashing at one of their brothers’ lofts in the City.
She had gotten separated from her friends, somewhere north of Union Square, on their way back to the loft. Their laughter echoed off the canyon like walls, as her world began to spin. Suddenly on hands and knees, she came to puking expensive alcohol through the heavy grates in the diffuse blackness below. Looking to her right, she realized the pile she thought was garbage was instead a man, very close to her, who was getting ready to sneeze.
08 July 2005
Challenges facing literature; paths to resolution?
I found myself thinking, actually getting quite upset about it, but nonetheless thinking about what writing means today.
Looking at other genres, you have abstract structural art, e.g. a giant fork welded to the side of a bulldozer, or seventeen video monitors mounted on top of each other, all showing different segments of the same elderly man’s talking head reciting the alphabet backwards.
In music you have perhaps the greatest breadth of options known to mankind. Right now, I could go online, and, within fifteen minutes, find stations broadcasting the latest sounds out of Ramadi, Ninsei, Mumbai, Novosibirsk. I can listen in to the local sounds of any part of the globe, or find modern music ranging from silent symphonies to seventeen loudspeakers all playing different segments of the same Harley motorcycle starting up.
Looking to writing, though, what do we find? We find the same medium, paper and ink, that has been around since the dawn of mankind, perused by millions of people a day. Of course, music has been around far longer, but enjoys the advantage of mobility.
The reader must sit his or her ass down, in one spot, with the intention of reading just one book, one page at a time, to myself, ignoring everyone and everything around me. Running on the boardwalk by the beach today, however, I heard a dozen different snippets of pieces of music, and saw cars, houses, bodies and clothing that bore visual art. Where would I rather be, as a young man in Southern California? Out in the sun, checking out sculpted female bodies, iShuffle blasting, looking for new tatoo ideas, or inside, in a comfy chair, jogging the mind, expanding the imagination?
Both options have their merits, both fulfil certain needs, desires. But with eternal sunshine, endless TV programs and internet pr0n, who has time for books, let alone novels? I work hard myself to make the time to read and write, but find it far easier to boot up the PS2 and drop in Mean Girls, naked, in the dark.
So, what is the solution? I beg to offer none. Just as there is no silver bullet for terrorism (RIP London 7/72005) or environmental destruction (too many to mention, open your blinds), this is a complex issue. For one, it’s really not cool to read, at least not when you’re, say, walking, or riding your bike, or at a party.
Would you be reading, at the party? Not there. I would be working the room, dropping body language hints to the foreign chick smoking non-filters in the corner, guzzling Black Russians, grab-assing and being generally inappropriate.
Well, if not at the party, would you be reading at home? My GBA is burning a hole in my skull right now, from twenty feet away, Sacred Stones begging to be saved. I discipline myself as best as possible, to read, and not just in the fifteen minutes before going to bed.
One possible solution is to shorten the material into its basic components without losing the basic, underlying meaning or substance of the piece. Is this possible? I mean to try. I read not too long ago that the majority of people who read novels are over 50. Would the under 35 demographic take the time to read five pages of kick-ass text, boiled down from the classics, or compiled from today’s newest and finest? Perhaps such shrinkage would alienate the older foundation of readers. Perhaps, it would not even register, and they could go on leafing through leather bound tomes.
Another solution would be to offer cheap downloads of text read by man or computer to portable devices, with voice on-off activation, so that the under 35s can listen while driving, walking, fucking, and not face the nuisance of having to take the CD with them, or carry an additional playback device.
Personally, I like listening to books read on long trips. Maybe ... weave pop music in with the story, have it in the background, but I doubt if radio stations would play it. Maybe NPR, before the Republicans cut funding. Pop music would time-stamp the piece, forcing periodic rework, or encouraging the creation of all new stories to all new music. I will have to look for similar discussion groups, or blogs. Any ideas? MG.
Looking at other genres, you have abstract structural art, e.g. a giant fork welded to the side of a bulldozer, or seventeen video monitors mounted on top of each other, all showing different segments of the same elderly man’s talking head reciting the alphabet backwards.
In music you have perhaps the greatest breadth of options known to mankind. Right now, I could go online, and, within fifteen minutes, find stations broadcasting the latest sounds out of Ramadi, Ninsei, Mumbai, Novosibirsk. I can listen in to the local sounds of any part of the globe, or find modern music ranging from silent symphonies to seventeen loudspeakers all playing different segments of the same Harley motorcycle starting up.
Looking to writing, though, what do we find? We find the same medium, paper and ink, that has been around since the dawn of mankind, perused by millions of people a day. Of course, music has been around far longer, but enjoys the advantage of mobility.
The reader must sit his or her ass down, in one spot, with the intention of reading just one book, one page at a time, to myself, ignoring everyone and everything around me. Running on the boardwalk by the beach today, however, I heard a dozen different snippets of pieces of music, and saw cars, houses, bodies and clothing that bore visual art. Where would I rather be, as a young man in Southern California? Out in the sun, checking out sculpted female bodies, iShuffle blasting, looking for new tatoo ideas, or inside, in a comfy chair, jogging the mind, expanding the imagination?
Both options have their merits, both fulfil certain needs, desires. But with eternal sunshine, endless TV programs and internet pr0n, who has time for books, let alone novels? I work hard myself to make the time to read and write, but find it far easier to boot up the PS2 and drop in Mean Girls, naked, in the dark.
So, what is the solution? I beg to offer none. Just as there is no silver bullet for terrorism (RIP London 7/72005) or environmental destruction (too many to mention, open your blinds), this is a complex issue. For one, it’s really not cool to read, at least not when you’re, say, walking, or riding your bike, or at a party.
Would you be reading, at the party? Not there. I would be working the room, dropping body language hints to the foreign chick smoking non-filters in the corner, guzzling Black Russians, grab-assing and being generally inappropriate.
Well, if not at the party, would you be reading at home? My GBA is burning a hole in my skull right now, from twenty feet away, Sacred Stones begging to be saved. I discipline myself as best as possible, to read, and not just in the fifteen minutes before going to bed.
One possible solution is to shorten the material into its basic components without losing the basic, underlying meaning or substance of the piece. Is this possible? I mean to try. I read not too long ago that the majority of people who read novels are over 50. Would the under 35 demographic take the time to read five pages of kick-ass text, boiled down from the classics, or compiled from today’s newest and finest? Perhaps such shrinkage would alienate the older foundation of readers. Perhaps, it would not even register, and they could go on leafing through leather bound tomes.
Another solution would be to offer cheap downloads of text read by man or computer to portable devices, with voice on-off activation, so that the under 35s can listen while driving, walking, fucking, and not face the nuisance of having to take the CD with them, or carry an additional playback device.
Personally, I like listening to books read on long trips. Maybe ... weave pop music in with the story, have it in the background, but I doubt if radio stations would play it. Maybe NPR, before the Republicans cut funding. Pop music would time-stamp the piece, forcing periodic rework, or encouraging the creation of all new stories to all new music. I will have to look for similar discussion groups, or blogs. Any ideas? MG.
07 July 2005
Shortcut; Imp. of Risk Assmt.; Anticipation; the Date
Maybe, he thought, maybe if I take this road, it will lead me by some secret back way sun-glazed cliffs which I aim to descend, for to meet a fain lass in the vale. The jolly man, hidden in his cave, had made a few things clear to me before I left.
Not to take anything, you know, from the company, and certainly not to sell it so blatantly, in the square on market day. Rather to permeate all levels of the keep, to know of things before they happen, and plan for the bounty they bear, should the preparations be just right.
Of these things he did not speak, but I was thinking them over his words as he rambled on about the supposed necessity of maintaining a permanent, positive image in the eyes of others. How god damn important is it, I thought, if the new guy thinks you’re his best bud, if some jackass upstairs just up and walks into your office, yanks out some super-limited product, then hackles it at the market for no cost but that intangible risk of being caught. Whole peoples have been decimated by men willing to take, or oblivious even to the existence, of that risk.
The lean beast pounding away beneath me sounds a bit raspy, could have him checked out at the glue maker’s. This patch of road seems in no way familiar, unless that bridge up ahead is ... indeed, it is. Damn, must have triangulated my intended location by about three miles. At the very least, this stretch is, for sheer lack of interesting features, to be avoided.
Buy the ticket, take the ride. She had laughed, that night, every time she twirled, sinking back into my arms, allowing me to steal a kiss in her shy way, hesitant, with all her friend’s eyes on her, but excited at the prospect of it, at the spontaneous naughtiness. For some reason, I knew I would call her. It had become a bit of a personal problem, girls’ numbers filling empty spaces on scratch paper, appearing magically on cellphone contact lists, like so many others never to be called. I knew it would have to end, that I would have to not only buy the ticket, but take the fucking ride with it.
But why her? Why did the brief and barely noticed rash of empty promises, missed opportunities, echoing in its own loneliness, more of an irritation than a rash, really, that happened to plague this finest city briefly, before the advent of summer, end with her?
The bar can’t be but a few more blocks, and the lights have been sooooo good, hold, just a little longer, let me through, good, just ah... crap. Can’t get the fucking thing into neutral, roll back, gun it forward, get some friction on it, there. Something calming about that little green light, pulsating softly as the turn signal sucks juice, like the eye of a storm, internal clocks resetting as signs of an impending traffic light change promulgate. Then, the eyes pulsating slightly in their sockets as the lungs suck juice, releasing held breath slowly, for the split second when sound, wind and velocity once again reign supreme.
His eyes adjust to the dimness, a low mishmash of ceilings covering a previous courtyard. The Mexican bartender dunks a sliver of lime, too small, into his beer, seemingly for good measure, as he turns again, to scan the bar. Door in the back, looks like even more dim booths and tables in there. Two, at a table close by, pretty, but keep looking. The handful of booths that line the wall in this main room are all filled with couples, and it’s certainly not the eight year old sitting with Granny and Gramps. Now don’t they look foul. No smiles on her old face in decades, at least not real ones. He’s probably a cop, or wishes he still were, set in his ways, trigger happy, would complain about his own sweat.
The family close to the back door doesn’t even compute. You wouldn’t meet up with someone for drinks with your infant girl cousin puking on herself two feet away. No sir, it must be these two.
Three times he touches her, lightly, on the arm, about half way down the biceps. It is a gesture that is best used when something the lady said was not heard correctly, to encourage her to lean in, maybe get a little of your hot man breath down her ear canal to boot. Pleasant, interested, amusing, but not a fool, inquisitive, making sure to mix a little salt in with the sugar, so they know I’m not just feeding them lies.
Fuck I always mix up the first and third persons. Can we drop tense, shall I switch between them, can I? Will it make any difference, if someone picks up on it? Does it denote sloppiness, or a concentration on the greater structure of the piece?
It ends with a hug! Didn’t help that her sister was there. It was worse because she was hotter, maybe a bit smarter, but there for many different purposes. Failsafe. Judge. Support. Not once did she ask me a question. Fine. I just want to bang this little honey, probably never call her back. But a hug?
Proper fucked. There’s always prostitution. JK
Not to take anything, you know, from the company, and certainly not to sell it so blatantly, in the square on market day. Rather to permeate all levels of the keep, to know of things before they happen, and plan for the bounty they bear, should the preparations be just right.
Of these things he did not speak, but I was thinking them over his words as he rambled on about the supposed necessity of maintaining a permanent, positive image in the eyes of others. How god damn important is it, I thought, if the new guy thinks you’re his best bud, if some jackass upstairs just up and walks into your office, yanks out some super-limited product, then hackles it at the market for no cost but that intangible risk of being caught. Whole peoples have been decimated by men willing to take, or oblivious even to the existence, of that risk.
The lean beast pounding away beneath me sounds a bit raspy, could have him checked out at the glue maker’s. This patch of road seems in no way familiar, unless that bridge up ahead is ... indeed, it is. Damn, must have triangulated my intended location by about three miles. At the very least, this stretch is, for sheer lack of interesting features, to be avoided.
Buy the ticket, take the ride. She had laughed, that night, every time she twirled, sinking back into my arms, allowing me to steal a kiss in her shy way, hesitant, with all her friend’s eyes on her, but excited at the prospect of it, at the spontaneous naughtiness. For some reason, I knew I would call her. It had become a bit of a personal problem, girls’ numbers filling empty spaces on scratch paper, appearing magically on cellphone contact lists, like so many others never to be called. I knew it would have to end, that I would have to not only buy the ticket, but take the fucking ride with it.
But why her? Why did the brief and barely noticed rash of empty promises, missed opportunities, echoing in its own loneliness, more of an irritation than a rash, really, that happened to plague this finest city briefly, before the advent of summer, end with her?
The bar can’t be but a few more blocks, and the lights have been sooooo good, hold, just a little longer, let me through, good, just ah... crap. Can’t get the fucking thing into neutral, roll back, gun it forward, get some friction on it, there. Something calming about that little green light, pulsating softly as the turn signal sucks juice, like the eye of a storm, internal clocks resetting as signs of an impending traffic light change promulgate. Then, the eyes pulsating slightly in their sockets as the lungs suck juice, releasing held breath slowly, for the split second when sound, wind and velocity once again reign supreme.
His eyes adjust to the dimness, a low mishmash of ceilings covering a previous courtyard. The Mexican bartender dunks a sliver of lime, too small, into his beer, seemingly for good measure, as he turns again, to scan the bar. Door in the back, looks like even more dim booths and tables in there. Two, at a table close by, pretty, but keep looking. The handful of booths that line the wall in this main room are all filled with couples, and it’s certainly not the eight year old sitting with Granny and Gramps. Now don’t they look foul. No smiles on her old face in decades, at least not real ones. He’s probably a cop, or wishes he still were, set in his ways, trigger happy, would complain about his own sweat.
The family close to the back door doesn’t even compute. You wouldn’t meet up with someone for drinks with your infant girl cousin puking on herself two feet away. No sir, it must be these two.
Three times he touches her, lightly, on the arm, about half way down the biceps. It is a gesture that is best used when something the lady said was not heard correctly, to encourage her to lean in, maybe get a little of your hot man breath down her ear canal to boot. Pleasant, interested, amusing, but not a fool, inquisitive, making sure to mix a little salt in with the sugar, so they know I’m not just feeding them lies.
Fuck I always mix up the first and third persons. Can we drop tense, shall I switch between them, can I? Will it make any difference, if someone picks up on it? Does it denote sloppiness, or a concentration on the greater structure of the piece?
It ends with a hug! Didn’t help that her sister was there. It was worse because she was hotter, maybe a bit smarter, but there for many different purposes. Failsafe. Judge. Support. Not once did she ask me a question. Fine. I just want to bang this little honey, probably never call her back. But a hug?
Proper fucked. There’s always prostitution. JK
02 July 2005
Returning home; raven-haried killer wife; a meeting
Silently now, she must not hear me coming in so late.
His clothes seem tattered, the open collar revealing scratches, what could be a fractured collarbone. Looking in the hallway mirror, his eye sockets sheathed in pools of darkness. Through the large bay window off to the left, a sportscar, with one headlight out, choking on fumes in the driveway dark. With a sigh, it dies, the headlight dimming automatically.
Those German bastards really did get it right, with the new 500s.
Staring into the gloominess, he feels the Look from his wife. Call it spidey sense, maybe with a little radar thrown in, but with full send and receive. Scanning, he locates it off to the right, and meets her eyes by the stairs. She is armed when he reaches her, and he bear the scars to remind him of her abilities with even the smallest blades.. He knows if anyone else entered the house with malintent, they would be dead before their second breath of home sweet home.
From the tire tracks on the front lawn, and her loose stance, someone must have beat me here. But did they leave, or were they still here?
“Where is he?”
All was running according to plan. They knew they would have to face mercenaries at some point, he had just acquired the means to assure their financial security. She merely glares, a look of playful but deadly contempt briefly fill her face, to vanish back into the otherwise stoic depths of her face. She turns, and bolts silently up the stairs.
Reaching the top landing, he knows his son is safe, and looks at his wife.
Running her hands over his bruised body, she looks for signs of broken bones. They speak in hushed tones.
“How many?” A hint of mania rides his rational mind. He would never surrender the boy to that beast of a man. Sooner the boy would be dead.
“Maybe ten. If they burn the house, he will die. We must ...”
“He comes with us, then.”
The buyer sits, his legs crossed, wearing a loose Acapulco shirt, morning sun pouring into the misty beach air. He is drinking a mimosa, and is visibly drunk.
“Jack How the hell are ya ” He yells across the bar, waving Jack, the man who just sold out his company, to boot stealing hundreds of millions of dollars worth of product research and other sensitive data over, already ordering his new companion something to drink. The thumb drive burned a hole in his thigh as he slid in next to the American.
“What did you order for me?
“Jack and Coke.” He hesitates, looking toward the bartender, who causally moves on to the other end of the bar.
“Don’t worry. If you have what you say you do, you won’t need for money. Maybe find a safe place to hole up though. I got a cousin, in LA, could hook you up.”
Jack nods slightly, the base of his neck tight.
Winston J. Hall sees the movement, and realizes just how tense he himself is. This is big time, now, W. The only thing now is to get the data, and the passwords. His superiors had been pleased with the tidbits Jack had fed them, wanted the whole thing, even had the twenty million lined up for transfer.
His clothes seem tattered, the open collar revealing scratches, what could be a fractured collarbone. Looking in the hallway mirror, his eye sockets sheathed in pools of darkness. Through the large bay window off to the left, a sportscar, with one headlight out, choking on fumes in the driveway dark. With a sigh, it dies, the headlight dimming automatically.
Those German bastards really did get it right, with the new 500s.
Staring into the gloominess, he feels the Look from his wife. Call it spidey sense, maybe with a little radar thrown in, but with full send and receive. Scanning, he locates it off to the right, and meets her eyes by the stairs. She is armed when he reaches her, and he bear the scars to remind him of her abilities with even the smallest blades.. He knows if anyone else entered the house with malintent, they would be dead before their second breath of home sweet home.
From the tire tracks on the front lawn, and her loose stance, someone must have beat me here. But did they leave, or were they still here?
“Where is he?”
All was running according to plan. They knew they would have to face mercenaries at some point, he had just acquired the means to assure their financial security. She merely glares, a look of playful but deadly contempt briefly fill her face, to vanish back into the otherwise stoic depths of her face. She turns, and bolts silently up the stairs.
Reaching the top landing, he knows his son is safe, and looks at his wife.
Running her hands over his bruised body, she looks for signs of broken bones. They speak in hushed tones.
“How many?” A hint of mania rides his rational mind. He would never surrender the boy to that beast of a man. Sooner the boy would be dead.
“Maybe ten. If they burn the house, he will die. We must ...”
“He comes with us, then.”
The buyer sits, his legs crossed, wearing a loose Acapulco shirt, morning sun pouring into the misty beach air. He is drinking a mimosa, and is visibly drunk.
“Jack How the hell are ya ” He yells across the bar, waving Jack, the man who just sold out his company, to boot stealing hundreds of millions of dollars worth of product research and other sensitive data over, already ordering his new companion something to drink. The thumb drive burned a hole in his thigh as he slid in next to the American.
“What did you order for me?
“Jack and Coke.” He hesitates, looking toward the bartender, who causally moves on to the other end of the bar.
“Don’t worry. If you have what you say you do, you won’t need for money. Maybe find a safe place to hole up though. I got a cousin, in LA, could hook you up.”
Jack nods slightly, the base of his neck tight.
Winston J. Hall sees the movement, and realizes just how tense he himself is. This is big time, now, W. The only thing now is to get the data, and the passwords. His superiors had been pleased with the tidbits Jack had fed them, wanted the whole thing, even had the twenty million lined up for transfer.
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