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

Hey, gonna try something different this week. Our story (me and Tom‘s) is moving right along and we’re getting up there in terms of ‘chapters’. The hardest thing about writing a Serial Six is providing a new Reader (or a regular Reader who might want to refresh their memory) an opportunity to read the whole thing. So, here is a link to ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘.

Prompt word:

ACE

Even with the front door closed, Moonbeam could hear the unmistakable metallic-cough of noise-suppressor equipped rifles followed by the dull thumps of bodies hitting the ground. Oddly enough, the sound seemed to originate inside the two storey house which had the immediate effect of causing his elegant left eyebrow to freeze mid-sarcasm; the front door opened and the lead dancer at Lou Ceasare’s Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge leaned into the foyer,

“Come on, Ace, you’ve got thirty seconds to decide which side you’re on; we leave in fifteen and, if you do choose Curtain Number 2, remind me to make you explain what your interest in my visit here is; btw…twelve…eleven.”

Rocco stepped past Rue, reached under a sofa cushion and, approaching the wounded girl like a professional square dancer at a Minuet competition, turned her left hand behind her back, twirled her to the right and and secured both in a pair of handcuffs; unchecked, her rotation brought her around to face Rocco and, crouching slightly, lifted her over his shoulder. Turning towards the front door he bound her ankles with a second pair of cuffs, unlike the shiny metal on her wrists, these, rather incongruously were red-velvet wrapped; he immediately trotted out to the back of a van idling nose-out in the driveway.

“…Eight” Rue, now behind the wheel of the rust-scaled white Vauxhall Vivero, called out the open driver-side window even as the well-dressed Supervillain ran through the glare of headlights on his way to the front passenger side door, “As my boss Lou is fond of saying, when you’re off home turf, it never hurts to take along a button man or two, you know, keep the surprise visit factor to a minimum.”

Slamming the van into Drive before Moonbeam had both feet in, Rue DeNite stamped on the accelerator, side-swiping a Volvo parked on the opposite side of the street as she turned left; the bang of the collision was punctuated by a female shriek of pain and male laughter from the rear of the van; “Rocco, remind me to give our Superhosts here a 4.8 Star rating for our little airbnb stay.”

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.

(Still searching for a convention to make it easy on the new Reader to catch up. How about we say, ‘Last installment: Tom’s ‘Tattoo’)

Prompt word:

NAIL

“If our little ninja-ette doesn’t wake up in the next ten seconds, we’re outa here; screw the deposit, the airbnb rental contract is through one of Lou’s holding companies and besides, I’m pretty damn sure I declined both the optional homicidal au pair and enhanced-human butler,” Rue glanced at the girl on the floor whose arms were twitching as Rocco did something to her ear lobe with the nail of his right thumb and forefinger; without further comment she turned to the man who called himself Moonbeam.

“Tell, me, Mr. Beam, did someone hit a mute button on me when I wasn’t looking?”

Moonbeam, looking down at the girl briefly, immediately touched his index finger to his ear, sub-vocalized a short interrogative and received a barely-audible, but clearly negative response; never taking his eyes off the girl and Rocco, addressed Rue, a frown putting his words in italics, “We’ve all been subject to a certain degree of social ‘what-the-fuck’ this evening, Miz DeNite, but your companion ministering to the girl on the floor appears to have acquired a red dot on his shoulder.”

Seeing the suspicion in Rue’s eye, the envoy from the Co-ordination of Supervillains parried with a wry smile, “Ain’t none of my people, chica. Such a ham-fisted attempt at violence as using snipers and laser sights is beyond gauche, we’re citizens of the last civilized monarchy, after all.

Fortunately my transportation two doors down the street is a quite sufficiently kevlar’d Maybach GLS; I suggest we repair to the getaway car, my boss frowns on excessive use of superpowers with it’s inevitable collateral damage, the local constabulary get so worked up and my mission included a directive to be discrete at all costs.”

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, governed by a single admonition to make the story six sentences (no more, no less) in length.

This is our next installment of a Serial Six (co-written with Tom) ‘…of Heroes and the Misunderstood’. For heightened reading pleasure: …Previously in our story.

This week’s prompt word:

PASS

I’d be catching hell from Rue as soon as we were alone, but hey, sometimes gender trumps a guy’s better judgement, so as long as I was in bodyguard-mode, I decided to try and defuse the mounting tension in the room, “Let’s all take a beat, aiiight?”

Being 46 degrees of Italo-American descent, I was blessed with the whole, dark hair/complexion/eyes/improbable dimple, yet for God knows what reason, I find affecting a gangsta patois amuses the hell out of me, not to mention throwing my opponent off-balance, if only a little bit.

“OK, everyone but the dead or comatose chick on the floor stop talking,” I moved to the side just a microsecond before Rue’s hand on my back could move me; she was totally focused on the skinny dude with a twitchy arm, sneery lips and what looked to be a professional manicure; I moved over to our currently-holding-the-rug-down assassin-ette.

Crouching next to her, I turned her over on her back; her light-brown hair was short, (the pale of the nape of her neck suggesting a recent effort to change appearance), she was wearing what I think they call a peasant blouse and, as god-is-my-witness, circa 70s hip hugger jeans complete with a triangle of flowery fabric at the cuff; standing, she’d be 5′ 4” or so with a pass-able figure; a small tattoo showed above her honest-to-god macramé belt, a symbol: ; disregarding the remains of a big-assed gun now reduced to wood stock and canvas strap on the floor next to her, she reminded me of a coed who shot me down back when I was impersonating a college student.

Wonder Boy, or whatever his name was, was still speaking to Rue like I was her plus-one said something that reminded me that we weren’t in the US of A and how, other than Aston Martins, the Beatles and a recent UN award for “Most Progress in the Field of Dentistry’, I wasn’t in love with London or the whole spite-makes-right attitude of it’s inhabitants.

Then again, Rue had orders from Lou Caesare, orders far more nuanced, (and private), than the one he gave me: “Don’t let anyone kill her; you’re the more dispensable, capische?”

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 (insisting only on the number of sentences be Six). No more. No less.

We left the tall, thin man and the Sophomore in the Manager’s office locked in a meta-adversarial contest of Will. (Click Here).

Prompt Word:

HEART

“What’s that noise⸮”

The tall, thin man was at the door of the Manager’s office before the Sophomore could laugh at the older man’s total inability to resist the urge to find the obscurely weird in the common everyday; but, before the younger man could justify his own love of the eccentric, the volume reached a level sufficient to permit comprehension.

Standing in the hallway where it opened into the Six Sentence Café and Bistro proper, the collective conversation of the crowded room, of which all but four were strangers, was enhanced by the visual: people smiling at the young waiters and waitrae serving drinks to those seated at the room full of small, round tables; the well-dressed (ok, well, over-dressed) man’s eyes were drawn to a woman sitting in an alcove facing the stage, her face awash with the richly-hued light of a laptop as she watched the celebration of her return.

The Sophomore, a little further in the dark of the hallway, slightly behind the manager, awed, “No way, thats…”; without turning the old man man replied, “Way.”

“We would do well to let her tale stand as a reminder of true inner strength; I hope to have half the heart and a quarter of the will that Chris has exhibited over the last months;” glancing at the crowd, the Proprietor spotted Nick and Denise sitting nearby with what they hoped was not concerned-hovering as regular customers greeted the Raconteur with quiet deference; Mimi, at the end of the bar rose and held the swinging doors as Tom stepped out of the kitchen, a food tray the size of a Hula Hoop^® balanced over his head.

“You go, I’ll hang back and get into character,” the tall, thin man stepped further into the darkness of the hall as the shouts of, “Yo, T-Traveler dude!’ burst from a cloud of cigar smoke like a message from a sky-writer in the anti-matter universe.