the Wakefield Doctrine

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.”

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): ‘Details‘

Prompt word:

SLIDE

The passenger compartment of the helicopter was as noisy as an outboard motor in a bath tub as our vertical ascent ceased and began to slide into a more normal flight, seemingly to the north; to my right, Isla, my erstwhile captor/Plus-one, considerately settled a headset over my ears.

Opposite us were two seats, one vacant and the other occupied by a man in a suit that cost more than my car; gotta be honest, my first impression involved words like: basalt, predator and as-implacable-as-pancreatic-cancer; if the devil decided to visit Earth disguised as a professional wrestler, (with a major jones for men’s fashion), this guy’d be the perfect poster boy.

Leaning against Isla’s shoulder I started to ask something to the effect of, ‘Who’s the fireplug in the bespoke suit’, when I felt her slide to her right, as if trying to distance herself from me as she mouthed the words ‘open mic’.

The man, doing nothing to detract from his imitation of a heavily-sedated tiger, opened his eyes and, in voice that would be at home in one of those running-in-quicksand nightmares, said, “I am Constantin Szarbo, I am here to protect Cyrus St. Loreto’s interest in you.”

Call it instinct or my natural charm, but I immediately got thigh-on-thigh with my personal jailer and felt something of a pleasant bulge along my upper leg; while I’d normally smile modestly, I tilted back into a more erect posture and barely managed to not laugh out loud.

Isla, once she’d disarmed me on the ground, hadn’t bothered to take my cell phone, so my link to Rue remained very much alive; I felt an overwhelming wave of relief and a burst of optimism, but to cover myself, seeing a glint on his left wrist, I smiled at the high-fashion ogre, “Dude, love the watch, a Patek Philipe Complication, how appropriate is that?

*

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.)

(when last we saw Lou Caesare… here)

Prompt word:

SLIDE

“Lou?” The slightest hint of muzak filled the interrogatory void like the nectar of a Venus flytrap, barely masking the clittering of manicured nails dancing over a keyboard somewhere in a highrise office building overlooking Lake Michigan;

“Anya,” a softening of his characteristic growl was Lou’s concession to Diane Tierney who sat across the booth from him, her role shifting from executive to auditor.

“How darling, you’re calling me on a landline,” the woman’s voice was self-confidence personified, with a delicate lilt of humor that put most callers into a lesser state of alert; opposite the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge, Diane leaned across the table in an effort to hear the far-half of the phone conversation;

“And, I’ll bet my private phone number that it’s one of those black desk-phones, from, like those old movies where everyone wore hats and talked too much,” her laughter would bring a smile to babies and nightmares to toddlers.

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Lou remembered why he so enjoyed the old phones, with their solid, dumbbell-shaped handsets so well-suited to slamming into it’s cradle and achieving a satisfying sense of finality; but the discipline and self-will that allowed him to rise in the underworld was never far away; business always came first and was rarely ever personal.

Diane Tierney felt her phone vibrate, followed by an unfamiliar ringtone, a clip from a song by Dove Cameron; staring down at the screen, the hostess of the Bottom of the Sea banished the frown trying to claim her face and, instead, smiled,

“Anya, I must say, you are as impressive as Ian described, but enough about you, my boss has a…request.”

Across the booth, Lou Caesare receded into a cloud of cigar smoke, letting himself slide into his natural persona, that of an apex predator in a world of plenty.

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.

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.

*