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

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

Hosted by Denise, governed by a single admonition: make the story six sentences (no more, no less) in length.

ok… since we insist on continuing our, ‘what the?!??!!’ serial Six story, (the one that’s all dialogue between two characters at everyone’s favorite metaphorical virtual gathering place, the SSC&B), it behooves us to provide a link to the previous installment. Sure, we all enjoy writing, (and reading), serial Sixes. This one is so (we want to allude to an episode of our favorite show, ‘Community’ but my meta account is way overdrawn). Lets just go with the standard,

…Previously in the Manager’s Office.

This week’s prompt word:

GAME

“This is all just a …contest to you, isn’t it?”

Surely the smile is the original, (and thoroughly irresistible), prompt to indulge in anthropomorphizing every other animal; this for a race characterized more by it’s collective insecurity than it’s putative intellectual advantage over all other living things. The non-verbal emotional bait being set out by the man in a ten-thousand-dollar suit, seated on the far side of a discount office supply desk from the young man in Salvation Army top coat and scuffed Corcoran jump boots; the challenge in correctly identifying which had the upper hand is an example of the core dilemma in quantum psychology: it had nothing to do with them and everything to do with the hypothetical observer.

“I could throw in a third-hand quote from the creator of the modern detective novel, but that would be redundant, wouldn’t it kid?”

The tall, thin man felt a ripple of excitement in his abdomen, surely what the storied hunters of the previous century must have experienced in the moment they had, in their gun sights, the big… wild animal, the trophy of sought by all Big…. animal hunters.

“Let’s quit this shit, we both know any disagreement between you and I won’t amount to anything more than every beginner-writer’s info-dump;” as the Sophomore stood up, the collective scream of piezoelectric pain rose from the cell phones on the desk, renewing their dance for attention, “And agree to call this…. what’s the word I can never remember… something from the sport of tennis  win-set-match…. no, not that… some singular collective word… whatever.”

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