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 only one rule: use the prompt word and make the sentence count: Six

This week’s prompt word:

TRUCK

“Miz DeNite? Please follow me.”

The young man watched Rue, Rocco watched the young man and Rue DeNite smiled to herself, ‘All the world’s a stage and the dance is always for money;’ as if on cue, an armored trucked came to a stop on the far side of the glass wall that shielded the lobby from the ravenous Miami morning sun, ‘except when it’s not’.

The floor in front of the bank of elevators was marble and not drink-stained plywood, the interior lighting discreet rather than salacious; for her part, Rue wore a business suit by Chloé, carried an Epsom Kelly Sellier, the picture perfect wardrobe of a successful business woman had been waiting in her hotel suite; a chance brush against her thigh as Rocco stepped to the back of the elevator, pressing the clip of the garter belt she’d packed, brought back her conversation with the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club & Lounge.

“There won’t be nothin’ to it,” Lou was waiting in his booth as the last customer stepped out of the club, “go to Miami, convince them you’re my personal assistant and let them show you what they’re hiding…”

The look on Rue’s face prompted the club owner to elaborate, “Everybody’s hiding something, either their sins or their ambition and the funny thing, when the right person appears, they can’t resist bragging; this company, the Bernabau Company, is insisting on doing some business with my operation, fine, they’ll be expecting me to do due diligence, so help them believe you’re there to spy on ’em.”

Lou got up from the booth, “Hell, ain’t much different from your dancing, just pimp their imagination to your dance; do this for me and I’ll help you with that business on the Vineyard.”

*

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 only one rule: use the prompt word and make the sentence count: Six

This week’s prompt word:

TRUCK

The sun, skulking through the stands of chestnut and birch since sunrise, gathered unnecessary strength, rose above the tree line and ate the scrawny shadows of the people walking along the dust-dry road. Being a Saturday morning in June, the company store played coercive host to the mountain families, down from their tar paper shacks that clutched at the steep side of numerous hollers fanning out from the small coal town.

“Decent folk,” the man, seven days late for a shave, spit on the ground, make-shift italics on the adjective, followed the trajectory of his saliva-and-hate projectile with the focus of a battle-weary sniper, “naturally know to keep to themselves.”

“But, Pa, he’s different,” his daughter, at the threshold of womanhood, heard the tremble in her voice and felt something powerful and undefined pull against the bonds of family; her submissive role at once comforting and yet, clutching the way the ground does at the edge of a swamp.

Hooking his thumb through the strap of his threadbare overalls like a soldier would the strap of his Enfield, stubbornness armoring his face even as a trill of something like fear feathered it’s way down his back, slowed his words, “You might think there’s only him and how it makes you feel, but family comes first and our family don’t have no truck with that Montague boy and his kin.

Loading the small wagon with the necessities of life on loan from the Company, the sun stared down on the town in soundless rage.

*

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

Damn!

How much fun is: a) this Six Sentence Story bloghop, (in general) and 2) the opportunity to co-write a serial Six with Tom, (in particular)!

Previously (in Tom’s side of the narrative): Read this Six first (though the music should be enjoyable if divided between)

This closes our little story-ette. Good fun with characters, scenes, action and relationships.  Besides the simple fun of writing/co-writing a story, I’ve benefitted from the challenge, pushing (self-imposed) boundaries.

Tom. yo

Prompt word:

FORGE

“No, she’s ok; your instinct for people, well, Lou, I remain in awe…’ogni spada inizia nella fucina‘   no, not Danté, my great aunt Lucrezia, I’d hear it every time the nuns sent me home after losing a fight in the schoolyard;  yeah, right, [hushed laughter]  you tell her”.

The design specs for a vault usually do not include soft, comfortable flooring, as resistance to being breached is the priority, despite the discomfort of lying on the floor with, god-knows-why, currency on her chest, it was only the three-quarters of a lifetime spent hiding what she felt that allowed Rue DeNite to resist the impulse to wrinkle her brow at the incongruity of Rocco’s voice and his words.

Taking inventory of her physical condition was simpler and way more comfortable than the task of remembering what happened from the moment Dropped Apostrophe stepped in through the door she’d opened to him; that she’d been double-crossed by the superhero caused little, if any surprise, resentment or anger; her life experience confirmed two things: nearly every guy wanted to be a superhero and being a hero or a villain was in the eye of beholder.

The decision to open her eyes and deal with the most recent incongruity of her life was best executed by a slight fluttering of eyelids and a subtle tremor in her limbs the added benefit of this strategy was it permitted Rue to observe before being required to interact; the sight of Rocco crouching over her against a backdrop of a shiny wall full of busted out safe deposit boxes was the flash of light that heralded the thunder as the concern in his expression smoothed-over into his previous distant, slightly impersonal regard.

“If you promise to say, “What happened, where am I“, I promise to answer, “You’re safe now, everything will be alright.”

The steel walls of the metal vault should not have softened the tone of her erstwhile bodyguard, but from a place few were allowed access, Rue DeNite was able to distinguish between real and forged emotion; both man and woman laughed, sharing the moment.

*

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, ruled by a single… rule? To use the prompt word and keep it to six sentences in length.

OK. We know you’re anxious to get into this, our next installment in the as-yet, unnamed co-written serial story. But a little overview will, we promise, go a long way towards having you finish this Six with a sense of anticipation for the next, rather than dread of getting caught up in a story that, while intriguing, makes you feel like it’s 11:30 Thursday night before your trig final.

So: here is the link to Tom’s most recent contribution: DeNite’s Move.  And below is our contribution to the serial story. We strongly recommend you read Tom’s first.

This week’s prompt word:

FORGE

Ignoring the superhero’s offer of a hand, Rue DeNite folded herself out onto the four-inch ledge and followed her sodium-vapor shadow along the side of the building, the brisk night air refreshing; clear of the choking miasma of adrenaline, testosterone and disappointment, the calm she felt was in total contrast with an earlier time in her life when rage ruled her response to a world indifferent to her efforts to recover the only decent thing in her life.

Ignoring the forty feet of eternity to her right, Rue reached down, tore the soles off her fishnet stockings and repeatedly clenched her toes on the rough concrete-and-pigeon-shit surface of the ledge; she laughed, the scene from an old movie, ‘Die Hard’, coming to mind, complete with a subtitle, ‘Sure, but can you remember all your passwords‘; the moment was cut short when she heard:

“What’s wrong, are you all right out there and why’s this taking so long?”

The voice of her new bff, Dee-Appostrophe, pushing her on a metaphorical shoulder convinced Rue to forge ahead and, after negotiating a right angle turn that brought her to the target window, decided to take a cigarette break; that her ‘accomplice’ might get more stressed, that’d serve as a hazardous duty bonus.

Lighting up, Rue played through a variety of scenarios to follow breaking into the vault; she was surprised how Rocco, her ‘bodyguard’, was growing on her, in a ‘Of Mice and Men’ / Lenny sort of way and dismissed the idea of using him as a stalking horse; decent driver or not, the poor guy’d end up collateral damage in the event she found it necessary to alter any unspoken assumptions Dropped A might have regarding their relationship.

Going along with the plan to steal from Lou was, of course, a non-starter; the club owner may have put her in her current peril, but he’d also saved her life; flicking her cigarette into the dark night, the dancer turned business-liaison turned soon-to-be-erstwhile burglar smiled, “Then again, my birth mother didn’t raise no dummies.”

Feeling the tendrils of her past begin to metastasize, the young woman with a killer body and the soul of a failed poet cut a hole in the last window on the left, crossed the room and opened the door for an increasingly impatient superhero.

*

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, ruled by a single… rule? To use the prompt word and keep it to six sentences in length.

If you are a bit thrown by the subtitle of this week’s Six Sentence Story, take a quick read to get up to speed: the Beginning of our tale…

This week’s prompt word:

FORGE

(…the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge three days earlier)

“Wait out here, Rocco,” Lou Ceasare didn’t bother to turn to look at his bodyguard, “I pay you to make sure no one tries to collect whatever price they got on my head, but this I can handle,” a single knock on the door and he stepped through a door marked: ‘Private’.

Being a Wednesday evening, the dressing room was only half-chaotic; along the far wall was a row of dressing tables cluttered with make-up, jewelry and a remarkable variety of costumes and accessories, it was noisy in the low-keyed tension characteristic to backstage no matter what form of show business; at the end of the row, farthest from the stage door was the exception to the rule: makeup in neat rows, costumes on hangers; taped to the lower right-hand corner of the mirror was a photo of a young boy wearing blue overalls, leaning back against a dog lying on it’s side; the boy was smiling shyly and the dog’s face was a mix of protectiveness and sadness.

“DeNite, I know you’re back there, quit screwin’ around,” Lou stood just inside the door and waited until Rue DeNite rose from her dressing table and moving without a sound, came to stand in front of her employer; her 5′ 11” marked by a slash of electric blue over night-black hair, on her neck, below her right ear: ‘non serviam‘ in purple ink; she wore a tuxedo jacket, silk boxing trunks and the attitude of a kamikaze pilot playing chicken with the Pacific Ocean.

“That thing we talked about, down south at the Casino-on-Brickell-Street, is ready for your visit, lets go,” without bothering to check if the dancer was behind him, Lou opened the dressing room door and nearly ran into his bodyguard, who began speaking as he stumbled to get out of the club owner’s way.

“Hey boss, not for nothin’ but what’s a skinny chick with blue hair need with a bodyguard, especially in Miami; not like there ain’t lots of alternatives, ya know what I mean?”

Lou looked at Rocco, then, turning slightly back to Rue still standing in the doorway, “In case you were wondering, they know you’re coming, they believe it’s part of forging an alliance with their organization and we want them to underestimate you, hence the muscle here… and do me a favor and try your best,” glancing back at Rocco, “not to kill him, at least until you’ve completed your assignment, he’s a halfway decent driver.”

*