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): ‘Whitechapel‘ and (from us): ‘Slide‘

Prompt word:

OUTLET

“La naiba de vrăjitoare” (“Godamn witches!”);

my current host, jailor and fashion icon leaned out the open door of the helicopter with a grace that made me think of a tiger crouched in a tree; despite using a single hand on the edge of the opening to prevent his falling the fifty or sixty feet to the ground, he was totally focused on the instructions originating in the cell phone held to his ear with his free hand.

The language was predominantly Romanian, yet even with the roar of the engine, his half of the conversation had a decidedly Samuel Jackson/Jules Winfield tone; that said there seemed to be an awful lot sentences needed to say: ‘Mooncross Industries will need an excavator and bulldozer before they continue their research… and a coroner and a premium LinkedIn account, given the apparent body count’.

Nodding at no one, but doing it with the palpable sense of obeisance of a samurai with none of civilized tradition but way more a feral acknowledgement of a pack’s alpha the man put the phone in his pocket as the helicopter tilted and moved towards the airport abutting the industrial park; Isla leaned against me before catching herself as her eyes went all thousand-yard stare when we passed over the remains of a sign halfway between the frontage road and the building’s blasted exterior: ‘Mooncros.. I..dustr. R&D D..vision.’

We landed next to a Bombardier Global 8000 that had the runway all to itself, the light of the luxurious interior was occluded as Constantin Szarbo stood in the doorway locking eyes with me; I heard the sophomore philosophy fave, Fredrich Nietzsche’s voice intone: ‘look into the abyss and the abyss looks back’ the thought way more disturbing now than any college dorm poster.

I felt Isla pull on my arm and, plugging my headset back in it’s socket, we got out of the helicopter and began to cross the tarmac, skirting the JP4 hurricane as the engines strained the aircraft’s brakes; halfway to stairs up to the cabin, my phone started playing a totally unfamiliar ringtone, something from a band my grandparents liked, called The Beach Boys.

I put the phone to my ear and heard, “Mr. Virgilius, listen to me, if you want to live,” I held the phone at arms length with a eyebrow raised to Isla as a woman’s laughter flooded from the speaker, “Sorry, Rocco, couldn’t resist; but what you will definitely not be resisting are my instructions, that is if you and Miz DeNite ever hope to again see the inside of a certain American Strip Club and Lounge.”