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.
It is hosted by Denise and has a strict Six Sentence Limit
Speaking of ‘Penny Dreadfuls’, 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.)
However, most previously …from Tom.
Now, as we’re sure you surmised from our peculiar subtitle, we up to some hijinks. Given that we’re approaching the climax of our Serial Six, we decided to switch desks! Tom is writing ‘our’ storyline, (in which Rocco is protagonist), and we’re taking over the Rue & Moonbeam narrative. For a while, at least.
Prompt word:
TONIC
“Jeez Louise, the secret-samurai architect of this terminal totally rocked the East-Meets-Nanook-the-Warrior minimalism,” Rue DeNite crossed under the glass-and-aurora borealis expanse of Keflavik International Airport’s main terminal, found the bar, ordered a tonic and tonic and headed towards the Danish modern sofa where Moonbeam was seated, the soles of her tired feet shushing over the terrazzo floor, when his jacket pocket began to make chirping sounds.
Holding up his right index finger, the Supervillain put his phone to his ear; on the basis of facial expression, the other half of the conversation would have been accurately represented had someone thought to provide cue cards with bold-ink exclamations marks, big-assed pound signs (aka hashtags) and an asterix or two; after a particularly distraught series of ‘…but you weren’t there, I had to make that call, the situation was fluid‘; Rue, now sitting close enough to rest her crossed right knee on his left thigh, took the phone from his hand.
“Hi, this is Rue DeNite; first off, loved the jet; second thing, even though we haven’t actually met, I’d appreciate you cutting my friend here a little slack.”
Smiling at Moonbeam, Rue nodded several times, paused at least twice and pantomimed writing something down, bold strokes in the air with a silent laugh towards her companion who had begun to gesture somewhat frantically;
“Don’t get me wrong, your stepping up with transportation was very kind, but I’m here because my boss asked me to and, not for nothin’, but of the three people in this conversation, only one has gone up against Cyrus St. Loreto and walked away unscathed; I’ll give you a hint: it wasn’t you.”
Curling her legs up on the couch, Rue held the phone between her right ear and some part of Moonbeam’s head and continued, “So listen lady, oh, it’s The Lady, classy, I like it; but the thing of it is, the amount of shit I allocate to your insight into the global ramifications, geopolitical repercussions and nuanced counter-moves of this little circus is in the range of negative zero;” Moonbeam’s eyes acquired the wild look of a horse at the approach of a glowing-hot branding iron, “So, what say we end our little chat with an American idiom you might be familiar with, ‘Fuck you’.”
Turning to her companion with a look of surprised innocence, Rue laughed, “What?”
