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

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

Hosted by Denise, ruled by a single… rule? To use the prompt word and keep it to six sentences in length.

If you are a bit thrown by the subtitle of this week’s Six Sentence Story, take a quick read to get up to speed: the Beginning of our tale…

This week’s prompt word:

FORGE

(…the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge three days earlier)

“Wait out here, Rocco,” Lou Ceasare didn’t bother to turn to look at his bodyguard, “I pay you to make sure no one tries to collect whatever price they got on my head, but this I can handle,” a single knock on the door and he stepped through a door marked: ‘Private’.

Being a Wednesday evening, the dressing room was only half-chaotic; along the far wall was a row of dressing tables cluttered with make-up, jewelry and a remarkable variety of costumes and accessories, it was noisy in the low-keyed tension characteristic to backstage no matter what form of show business; at the end of the row, farthest from the stage door was the exception to the rule: makeup in neat rows, costumes on hangers; taped to the lower right-hand corner of the mirror was a photo of a young boy wearing blue overalls, leaning back against a dog lying on it’s side; the boy was smiling shyly and the dog’s face was a mix of protectiveness and sadness.

“DeNite, I know you’re back there, quit screwin’ around,” Lou stood just inside the door and waited until Rue DeNite rose from her dressing table and moving without a sound, came to stand in front of her employer; her 5′ 11” marked by a slash of electric blue over night-black hair, on her neck, below her right ear: ‘non serviam‘ in purple ink; she wore a tuxedo jacket, silk boxing trunks and the attitude of a kamikaze pilot playing chicken with the Pacific Ocean.

“That thing we talked about, down south at the Casino-on-Brickell-Street, is ready for your visit, lets go,” without bothering to check if the dancer was behind him, Lou opened the dressing room door and nearly ran into his bodyguard, who began speaking as he stumbled to get out of the club owner’s way.

“Hey boss, not for nothin’ but what’s a skinny chick with blue hair need with a bodyguard, especially in Miami; not like there ain’t lots of alternatives, ya know what I mean?”

Lou looked at Rocco, then, turning slightly back to Rue still standing in the doorway, “In case you were wondering, they know you’re coming, they believe it’s part of forging an alliance with their organization and we want them to underestimate you, hence the muscle here… and do me a favor and try your best,” glancing back at Rocco, “not to kill him, at least until you’ve completed your assignment, he’s a halfway decent driver.”

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