Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Denise is the host.

This week’s prompt word:

ENERGY

“It’s obvious you people have the organizational energy and requisite expertise, the only negative my auditors can find is in the make-up of your Board of Directors,” the fund manager glanced towards his entourage, silent preface to what he considered a most urbane witticism, “I understand they refer to themselves as the Proprietors?”

Expensively-tailored chuckles ensued, as the individual members of the appraisal team seized on the next thorny branch in their upwards climb to corporate heaven; the merriment faltered into silence as the tall, thin man turned towards the group with an expression that, in the realpolitik of finance and lending, made Mr. Potter, the banker in the movie, ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’, look like Saint Francis of Assisi.

As it happened, the tour of the interior of the Six Sentence Café & Bistro ended at the waitress station which permitted access behind the bar and, from there to the kitchen; scrambling like clowns out of a car suddenly dropped into a junkyard metal crusher, as the fund manager began to stutter that he was not making fun, rather that he was impressed with the level of sophisticated professionalism in everything he’d seen, he was interrupted by a dog’s bark and a woman’s voice.

Stepping through the double swinging doors and around to the outside edge of the bar, a woman and a dog stood in front of the group; without a word, the tall, thin man crouched in front of the dog and, ignoring the uncomfortable silence of the bankers, stuck out his tongue and did a passable imitation of a dog panting and inviting play.

Looking down at the dog and man, the woman smiled with obvious affection and, after a moment, said, “I believe you gentlemen,” a nodded acknowledgement towards the sole woman in the group, “have nothing we need.”

Looking back to the man and the dog on the floor between her and the bankers. she appeared to speak to the dog, “I trust you’ll forgive our species as some of it’s members mistake the meanness of sarcasm for clever humor and since we haven’t time for paper-training, they’ll be leaving now”; Húnga wagged his tail and the tall, thin man smiled.

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