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

So, having such a jones for virtual locations (the Six Sentence Café and Bistro and the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge) and serial stories, we couldn’t resist Tom’s comment on last week’s Six Sentence Story. If you’ve ever gone over to his site, The Mansionic Perspective, Tom has this gift for characters, original plot and names (of characters). Don’t laugh! If you’re thinking, ‘What?! Names are just names!’ you clearly haven’t spent much time creating original characters.  You should. He has.

Anyway, so last week at the Six Sentence Story, I mentioned a new dancer at Lou’s club (the aforementioned ‘Bottom of the Sea…’) by the name of Rue DeNite. Here’s that Six. Go down through the Comments and you can read our exchange in the Comments. That will provide the backstory of the following story.

Long Story Short: Tom wrote this Post.

I wrote the Post below.

(Hey! Vote ‘Hell yeah!  and you may have further adventures to read in future Sixes and such)

‘Shit!’

A familiar sound-that-wasn’t-really-sound, followed by the sound of breaking plate-glass demanded Rue DeNite’s attention like a live codfish on the altar of a Catholic High Mass.

A quick glance at the table opposite the bank of security monitors added a slightly twisted, totally evil grin, the perfect accessory to one of her favorite dance outfits. Pausing at the vinyl-tufted door, Rue heard the sound of her mother’s voice, ‘You’ll always look taller if you pay attention to your posture. All the better to make the most of the one gift that God gave you: Surprise and Innocent eyes.’

The transformation of fear into desire, as familiar and trusted friend as any, prior to meeting Lou Ceasare, the dancer stepped into The Filigree Room of the Casino-on-Brickell-Street.

~~~~~

“Well, just for the sake of argument,” watching for the expected tell from her co-conspirator-to-be, Rue stepped down out of her white heels and, hooking both the index and middle finger of her left hand, extended them to the costumed man. A slight hitch in her upper chest masked by her bustier was the only hint at her urge to smile as he stepped closer. He squared his shoulders as she turned and walked to the chrome-on-mirror bar, his reflection absorbing something that looked like pleasurable guilt.

“Suppose you do tie me up,” adding an adjustment to her fishnet stockings, the stripper/PhD candidate, watched the pupils of the Apostrophe’s eyes flare like a black hole encountering a gas nebula. Repressing the ache of disappoint at the willingness of a  man she once considered a potential friend, to betray her, Rue decided to double-cross herself.

Blinking with practiced naiveté, Rue DeNite pushed a Manhattan across the bar, the doubling of image immune to the irony and smiled, “Here’s to duplicity.”