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 there is but one rule: 1) the story must be exactly six sentences in length and b) the prompt word must be apparent, evident and/or otherwise referenced

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): ‘Mooncross Industries‘ and (from us): First this. (then) this

Prompt word:

CORE

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?”

“Get that goddamn woman back on the phone…” Lou Caesare rarely tolerated being unable to do something about a problem; having survived and, more importantly, thrived in the core of the extraordinarily-lethal world of organized crime, were an author to write the biography of the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge, an fitting epigraph might be:

All great men, criminal and honest, are possessed of a natural talent for performing before an audience and the most successful of these project an air of irrefutable sincerity.

“Miz Claireaux, I wanted to thank you for your efforts on behalf of my people,” Lou frowned at the smile of unalloyed approval on Diane’s face from the opposite side of the booth.

“Lou, how kind of you to say that and let me assure you, I will consider your input regarding how much destruction I arrange over there in Iceland. After all, a girl can’t kill every blind date who turns out to be a boor, of course a few, every now and then, well, that’s what makes life worth living, don’t you think?”

She laughed in a way that, were there normal people participating in the conversation, they would likely soon be found in therapy, a confessional or the depths of existential despair.

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 there is but one rule: 1) the story must be exactly six sentences in length and b) the prompt word must be apparent, evident and/or otherwise referenced

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, right to where these new installments from us continue the narrative.)

The following (Part 0.5) is a little break in the action. Not quite a quiz. That said, a certain Reader once observed: ‘The best stories have characters with whom we simply enjoy spending time.’ We trust you will enjoy our little interlude.

Prompt word:

CORE

“Look, although all this international intrigue is very cool, don’t take this the wrong way, but your group, a Coordination of supervillains, well,” ~~~”Funny you say that, even though as a kid, I really believed I would grow up to be a superhero, I’ve reconciled myself to being a supervillain,”~~~ “Thing is, what makes me happy in life is dancing at Lou’s place and seeing my kid on vacation at the boarding school,”~~~ “You want to have a lot of kids too?”

“Listen, just checked with the pilot, well, he said we just broke up through five thousand two hundred and eighty feet of altitude and rising… I know we kinda just met and all, but would you care to join me in the aft restroom?”~~~”Hell, yeah…. but, being… er a bit older than me, you sure you can handle excessive G forces… no, wait, still got my cuffs, so lay on MacDuff!”

“The Bard wrote: ‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Leftenant, than are dreamt of in your philosophy’; might I offer the following question-slash-invitation, ‘How much do you know of Adam’s first wife?'”

“There is hope for this new generation, even if the vices are digital and the passion virtual, as long as their core values are intact, my web grows stronger with each passing day;”~~~ “Are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?”~~~ “In my very, very long life I have come to accept that Avarice, as found in a certain Garden, was both curse and gift but you, Constantin, are both my Uriel and Raphael.”

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?

*