Six Sentence Story | the Wakefield Doctrine - Part 18 Six Sentence Story | the Wakefield Doctrine - Part 18

Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- “…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood” [Part 1.5]

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is our contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, governed by simple rule: ‘Do it in Six or don’t do it at all.’

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.)

If you’ve been following along, here are Tom’s most recent, which serve as a lead-in: ‘Two Sides‘ and ‘Svikja‘.

Prompt word:

BANK

“If I hear, ‘It’s not a bad as it sounds’, one more fuckin’ time, it will be…for you,” Lou Ceasare pointed his cigarillo at the man standing next to his booth, that being nearest to the kitchen and the backstage dressing rooms, served as his office/boardroom; acutely aware of his employer’s business practices, the former owner of a Dark Web consulting company realized that reminding his boss that he was ‘only the messenger’ would do nothing other than hasten his demise.

Diane Tierney slid into the opposite side of the booth, nodded the grateful man away and spoke in a calm yet, somehow, commanding voice, “Lou, in all the years I’ve been hostess here, there’s never been a problem you couldn’t,” a smile teased the corners of her eyes, “solve”; and if you choose not to believe me, I’ve got a list of frustrated local and federal law enforcement professionals who will be surely testify to your innate ability to …problem-solve.”

Her eyes flared a shade of purple not yet proven to exist, and, a heartbeat later, the bartender dropped a glass, and the dancer who, at that moment was playing keep-away with a circle of light on stage in the strip club half of the building, broke a heel which was more serious than it sounds, it being one-half of her remaining costume.

“You can godamn well take that to the bank,” Lou laughed his crocodile laugh and the grey-blue bank of cigar smoke obscuring his face lifted, “I’m open to any suggestions that get my dancer and her bodyguard back in one piece, provided it don’t involve that rompicoglioni down in Miami; I regret trying to put Cyrus-fuckin-St. Loreto in my debt by agreeing to send Rue on a scouting expedition over in England, or Iceland or wherever the hell the company he needed espionaged.

“There is one resource,” Diane did something with her face, a look that Lou had witnessed stopping a hormone-and-gin drunk Superior Court judge from ending his career on the stage in his club; “But it’s worse than dealing with Cyrus and his Bernebau Company, it involves Anya Claireaux.”

This time, the bartender dropped a bottle of liquor and the dancer fell off the stage.

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Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- “…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood” [Part 1.0]

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is our contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise, governed by simple rule: ‘Do it in Six or don’t do it at all.’

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

If, however, you’ve been following along, here are Tom’s most recent, which serve as a lead-in: ‘Two Sides‘ and ‘Svikja‘.

Prompt word:

BANK

“Hey, doll, not for nothin’ but I’m pretty much a third-date-before-the-slings-and-trapeze come out, kinda guy,” I was doing my best to lighten up the not-so-funny turn of events as my former captive-chick snapped a final lock on the harness I let her put me in; she immediately waved up at the helicopter hovering in the dark-and-rainy night sky.

Getting hoisted into the sky at gun point wasn’t entirely without redeeming value, given the panoramic view I had of my recent crash-on-a-deserted-London street experience; I could see Rue being bundled into the front passenger seat by the guy who kinda seemed to set off the whole evening action sequence, but setting aside my growing resentment, I called down as he raced around the front of the SUV and the driver’s side door;

“Hey, Moonbeam, take good care of my friend there and, as my boss, Lou, has been known to advise, ‘When everything’s gone to hell, your best bet is to do the opposite of what your rational brain is telling you; it’ll surprise the other guy and chances are they’ll be aiming right where you’re not’.”

The guy gave me a ‘thumbs up’ like in some 1940s war movie; I couldn’t help but think that maybe, if I had rays coming out of my hands, I’d be kinda trying to fuck up the rocket launcher or the helicopter, you know, mess up their night too, but then thought, different strokes for different folks; I did manage a kind of salute, but by then they’d disappeared down the deserted street in the direction opposite the rocket launcher.

Turning my attention to my little Dom, I realized that after securing my harness, she went and climbed on my back with her left hand to a spare strap, like a subway rider but with an added personal touch of wrapping her legs around my waist.

“There is a God,” I laughed, twisting the harness in such a way that we were face-to-face; never one to underestimate the power of spontaneous romance in my never-ending effort to learn what it is a woman wants, but, as God is my witness, I’d swear I saw a corner of her mouth twist upwards.

My positive vibes disappeared as the helicopter started to bank in the direction opposite where Moonbeam had driven; all I could think was how Lou was gonna react when he got the news that I managed to let Rue get kidnapped right in front of me; it killed my mood faster than a bunch of parents showing up a day early for Parent/Student weekend at a coed college dorm.

 

 

*

 

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Six Sentence Story -the Wakefield Doctrine- [a Café Six]

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 with one thing on her mind: sentence count (Hint: rhymes with Six)

Prompt word:

REMOTE

“Hello?”

If one wanted a specific, though not overly-comprehensive, insight into how the tall, thin man related himself to the world around him, the interrogative appendage to his query, stepping from the darkening hallway at the far-end of the bar, would’ve spoken volumes.

“I’d swear this place was crowded with Proprietors and guests,” Lips pressed into a non-committal expression, (another classic tell), he walked past the small stage to a round wooden table upon which was a laptop, a remote control and a high-quality embossed white card, “Press Me” in simple but elegant script.

Looking around the empty Café, the thought, ‘Better safe than sorry’ intruded, serving double duty as both a cautionary admonition and a suitable, if not regrettable, inscription on, say, an anniversary watch or, perhaps, in thrall to a fit of congenital irony, the transom of a sailboat; the Proprietor pushed the red button on the remote.

A live video feed lit the display screen, a title scrolling up “Live and Remote… as opposed to Remote and Alive… the Travels of the Four Proprietae: Chris and Mimi,  jenne and… Denise…” music from the seventies began to play.

Somewhere on the far side of the globe, the Raconteuse sat at a wrought iron table on the edge of a formal garden in the gathering dusk, smiled, waved and said, ” JenneDenise and Mimi, just left, they should be home soon. Don’t leave the kitchen a mess now.”

 

 

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Six Sentence Story “…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood” [Part 1.5]

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 with one thing on her mind: sentence count (Hint: rhymes with Six)

If you’re a new Reader (or a regular Reader who might want to refresh their memory) here’s an opportunity to read the story Tom and I are writing from the beginning. The link to ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘.

Prompt word:

REMOTE

I came to on my back, covered in girl and had a flashback to a dormitory-morning from my road-less-travelled college phase when a girl from my Intro-Anthro class walked in with two coffees, one donut and a small pipe of hashish; at the present moment, unlike the morning in a distant dorm, all I had to go on were a bunch of 8×10 still-shots of memory:  riding in the back of a speeding van, excessively bright lights, and, finally, the vehicle tipping over and sliding to a stop.

My eyes opened, (only the one time, as opposed to the continuous, seamlessly-repeating-sequence that some drugs think you’ll love), and I took stock of the interior of the old van that most recently served as our getaway car: above me, a girl-shaped pile of arms and legs and breasts and such, to my left, Rue hanging upside-down from the empty space where her door used to be and the ‘…and Friends’ limey who was kinda playing the concierge to our misadventures this third night in London.

Before I could say,  ‘What the bloody hell’, (I took a certain professional pride in my ability to blend in with the locals, even when they had glowing arms and a total crush on the woman I was assigned to protect), I heard my boss, Lou Caesare, putting a footnote to my instructions to make certain no harm comes to Rue DeNite, ‘Assess and attack, the best defense is a dead opponent’.

As time returned to one-second-equals-one-sixtieth-of-a-minute, I heard: Rue laughing as she jumped to the street, that Moonshadow guy asking her about something I couldn’t see, a really strange sound approaching the van and, from my prisoner-ette a surprisingly lucid, “My name is Isla Sora, implant remote number 314159…”

At that moment, the back door of the van disappeared, so I unlocked my prisoner’s ankle ‘cuffs and pulling her along, got out and stood on reasonably-solid pavement where the English guy was pointing towards the back-passenger door of a fairly nice SUV; the source of the strange noise turned out to be a fricken rocket launcher and overhead we were treated to a midnight sun that made a noise like a big-assed ceiling fan.

I felt two things as I moved towards our newest getaway car, my Glock pressing against my back instead of it’s holster and disappointment that I let my prisoner get the drop on me while still in handcuffs… total déjà vu from that college morning so long ago.

 

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Six Sentence Story “…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood” [Part 1]

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 with one thing on her mind: sentence count (Hint: rhymes with Six)

If you’re a new Reader (or a regular Reader who might want to refresh their memory) here’s an opportunity to read the story Tom and I are writing from the beginning. The link to ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘.

Prompt word:

REMOTE

[GCHQ London Branch]

The city of London, with an estimated 627,707 cctv cameras, remote microphones and drones nesting in the clouds, could be thought of as, ‘the city that never sleeps’ but that characterization would not be fair, (or accurate), to either it’s citizenry or it’s surveillance system; in the case of the former, one’s sanity requires the personal privacy of sleep, while the latter thrives on constant awareness, albeit digital and thoroughly un-human.

“Yes, Leftenant Custos, something the AI can’t explain, I assume,” The LMN (Live Monitor Nexus) was a subterranean hectare of monitors and operators; the Watch Supervisor, Colonel Villicus, had sedgway’d down and across the ruler-straight aisles of the heart of the GCHQ until he stood behind the young man.

“The oddest thing, sir, a common speeder at first, but when I ran it’s path backwards, multiple gunshots, originating here,” the image on his monitor was a single family house and a very expensive car with four flat tires in the driveway; anticipating his supervisor’s question, “Yes those are two dead bodies on the opposite side of the street, but that’s not the oddest thing,” running the tape forward showed a van pulling out of the driveway, both men cringed as it sideswiped a parked car without slowing, racing out of the neighborhood until it was in a commercial area when, seemingly for no reason, tipped over and, sliding along on it’s side, came to rest in the middle of an empty intersection.

“Now, watch this,” pulling back on a joystick control, the perspective zoomed up and away sufficiently to bring two additional vehicles, a motorized rocket launcher and a helicopter into view; Lt Custos wisely decided not to comment on the rarity of such equipment on a London village street on a weeknight.

Colonel Villicus’s fingers flew over the keypad Velcro’d on his right wrist, activating an array of additional filters, including infrared, and the immediate result was the addition of the green-on-green silhouettes of four people, all moving towards a vehicle which, after a moment of hesitancy, sped in the opposite direction from the military-grade equipment.

A tone sounded from somewhere on, (or in), the person of the Supervisor, prompting a passable mime of a dog hearing an unexpected sound; resting his hand on the younger man’s shoulder he whispered, “Notify the locals, tell them this is a classified SAS training drill and all they need do is divert traffic until we give the all clear.”

 

 

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