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

Tom and I are writing a Serial Six Sentence Story: ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘. (If you’re just starting, this link will provide the whole story.)

Previously in our story, (from Tom): ‘Details‘

Prompt word:

SLIDE

The passenger compartment of the helicopter was as noisy as an outboard motor in a bath tub as our vertical ascent ceased and began to slide into a more normal flight, seemingly to the north; to my right, Isla, my erstwhile captor/Plus-one, considerately settled a headset over my ears.

Opposite us were two seats, one vacant and the other occupied by a man in a suit that cost more than my car; gotta be honest, my first impression involved words like: basalt, predator and as-implacable-as-pancreatic-cancer; if the devil decided to visit Earth disguised as a professional wrestler, (with a major jones for men’s fashion), this guy’d be the perfect poster boy.

Leaning against Isla’s shoulder I started to ask something to the effect of, ‘Who’s the fireplug in the bespoke suit’, when I felt her slide to her right, as if trying to distance herself from me as she mouthed the words ‘open mic’.

The man, doing nothing to detract from his imitation of a heavily-sedated tiger, opened his eyes and, in voice that would be at home in one of those running-in-quicksand nightmares, said, “I am Constantin Szarbo, I am here to protect Cyrus St. Loreto’s interest in you.”

Call it instinct or my natural charm, but I immediately got thigh-on-thigh with my personal jailer and felt something of a pleasant bulge along my upper leg; while I’d normally smile modestly, I tilted back into a more erect posture and barely managed to not laugh out loud.

Isla, once she’d disarmed me on the ground, hadn’t bothered to take my cell phone, so my link to Rue remained very much alive; I felt an overwhelming wave of relief and a burst of optimism, but to cover myself, seeing a glint on his left wrist, I smiled at the high-fashion ogre, “Dude, love the watch, a Patek Philipe Complication, how appropriate is that?

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