Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Unicorn Challenge.
Hosted by jenne and ceayr, it is an image-prompt bloghop with the simplest of requirements: stories not to exceed 250 words.
[ed. thanks to ceayr in advance for giving me a chance to riff on his ‘Corn]
“If I see one more fuckin’ primitive, ‘oh-so-whimsical’ art display, I’m gonna break some shit up.”
Muttering out-loud produced the desired therapeutic effect. My first-year instructor at Langley used to insist, ‘Talk to yourself in public, sing Gilbert & Sullivan in the shower, whatever it takes, people. In the spy game, stress has killed more agents than bullets’.
So here I am making a pickup that should’ve been a cherry run for the nearest local agent: go to a gift shop in Grand Loch Banallity, find a red suitcase, find a jade camel figurine and deliver it to someone by the name ‘Raconteuse‘ at a bohemian nightspot called the SSC&B
“Who doesn’t love a voice-over?”
When I first turned to face the street and take a selfie to document the replaced Red Case, the only person in sight was a homeless man in a trench coat, rummaging through a trash-bin on the far sidewalk.
“Keith, don’t just stand there, take the lass’s phone so she can let her friends back home see fair Alba.”
Had the woman been wearing a Lee Penny around her neck and the white-haired man, a sporran, they couldn’t be more Highland tourists on an off-season holiday.
“Having a blether with yourself? Ain’t not a bad thing, hen.” She smiled with a glint of store-bought teeth.
I considered shooting them both, just on general principle; but at that moment two SUVs bracketed the old man and my retirees were whipping out serious side arms.