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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously, in our tale…

Prompt word:

BALLOON

“Lou, what an unexpected surprise!”

The owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge stood at the end of the SSC&B bar where, in a seamless, polished mahogany 90 degree right turn ended at the waitress station, with it’s access to the backbar and, halfway along the shelves of liquor, the entrance to the kitchen.

“Your lack of entourage suggests you’re here on personal business,” the tall, thin man stood in the open space between the hospitably bright Café & Bistro and the intermittently-dark hallway that led to Manager’s Office (the first door on the left) and afforded access to the rest of the old mill building, “Can I offer you coffee?”

Leading his guest towards the double swinging doors situated hallway down the shelves of bottles (backlit by a variable spectrum of colored LEDs and neon tubes), the Proprietor backed through the swinging door, pausing for his guest to enter the currently vacant stainless steel-on-porcelain kitchen; seeing the salt-and-pepper hedge of Lou’s eye brow stand at attention, the tall, thin man laughed, “Ah, you’ve noticed that our du jour is bouquets of colorful balloons.”

Each of the white-string-umbilical’d cluster of balloons, currently trying to escape through the ceiling, (as a species of short-lived life, they are famous for emotional impact, less so for problem-solving); were of a variety of hues representing the primary segments of the spectrum of visible light and every one had printed on it’s side a variation of ‘Félicitations, mémère’.

Even as the Proprietor was turning to explain, Lou was barking into his phone, “Today… take the fuckin company jet, whatever it takes, I want the flowers delivered today.”