the Wakefield Doctrine

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, it requires but one thing from participating writers: the story must consist of exactly six sentences.

Prompt word:

ADMISSION

“I know you’re old and, admit it or not, for New Year’s Eve, your idea of a good time is get all Savoy Row’d and go to a restaurant with a chick you never thought you had a shot with and, what do they say in the old movies, ‘Ring in the New Year’?” (#R,Stone)

(( how’d u get this # ))

“Seein’ how all you ‘Proprietors’ are scared of my… of Lou… yes ‘the mob guy’, jeez; take me to the Bottom of the Sea for a little visit, show my friends there I haven’t been kidnapped by weirdos and I’ll come back here with you for the Ring in the New Year thing.” (#Rosetta S)

(( lol ur scheduled to work ))

“Sure, wait, what the hell!! no worries, I’ll get one of the others to cover for me, at least anyone other than your psycho-Bartender bitch who, not for nothin’, is startin’ to impress me, you know what I’m saying… and, as my favorite professor in law school used to joke, admission is nine-tenths submission; now the Gatekeeper and Chris are almost too nice but your …your  obeah woman, I just wanna stay in her good graces.” (#InUr Dreams)

(( here’s the deal: help each of the Proprietors get what they want most and we have a date; now delete  my cell# ))

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 it has but one rule: make it Six Sentences, binyons

Prompt word:

DIP

“Sidown.”

The two career-drinkers at the bar dividing the Bottom of the Sea’s Strip Club from it’s Lounge didn’t look up as I passed; opposite the bar a single row of booths ran down the street-side wall of  semi-opaque’d windows, tempting as it might be to think this was out of respect for the sensibilities of the stand-up folks walking by, all gainfully-employed, one would be wrong.

The owner, Lou Caesare’s office was the last booth on the right, to my left I could see through the shelving full of liquor bottles to the stage where a new stripper was giving a Kansas song, a markedly-odd musical selection, the ole college try; the result was visually more a fight between a meth-addled mime and first year jazz dance student over a liberal arts coed.

I paused, seeing the phone held to his right ear; I looked back towards the front entrance where Diane was now leading a billboard-famous personal injury attorney and his date, a girl who looked around the joint with all the confidence of a puppy at a drag-strip, to their table; hearing Lou say something into his phone that rhymed with ‘Motherfucker’, I remained standing as if it were the high point of my existence to simply be there.

You ever see a … not a tiger or crocodile, nobody sees those in person, lets make that a German Shepherd backed into a corner, not an excess of fangs showing, tail dipped low, no feinting motions, it’s the eyes that tell the story of violence without even the hint of negotiation, moderation or consideration of aftermath;

“You’re a standup guy, Devereaux, not a lot of the people in my… employ can lay claim to such status;” Lou leaned forward over the table between us while exhaling a cloud of grey-white cigar smoke and the story of the Flying Dutchman forced it’s way into my forebrain, luckily he continued, “The thing of it is, when you hold power in the world I exist in, there is never an end to people wanting to take you down, or at very least, try and get leverage on.”

“I’m telling you this because the job I asked you to do, watching out for Rosetta, is about to become a bit more interesting, so if you ain’t got the stomach for this life, I’ll understand,” this time he leaned back disappearing into the smoke, I couldn’t help thinking, ‘If the Buddha had a supply of Cubans, the Pope in Rome would be totally looking over his shoulder.’

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 it has but one rule: make it Six Sentences, binyons

Prompt word:

DIP

“Honey, wake up,” the man heard his wife’s voice as if from a distance, the part of his brain that controlled dreaming, the metaphorical oblongata stirred into action, words became a howling wind, a hand gently-shaking his shoulder now a boulder of tremendous proportion and the very familiar there-not-there-there soft mass of her breasts the inevitable avalanche of a glacier, with just a hint of suffocation.

“Wow,” the man turned towards the woman; her waves of sleep-conspired hair tumbling off his face, pooling on his shoulder, even as their years together made the nano-scraping of her eyelashes on his throat a simple, if not affectionate demand he provide an explanation.

“You remember how, last night, I said I had nothing worth publishing in the Sis Sentence Story weekly bloghop,” awake now, he avoided the punctuation common to interrogatives, the writer-who-would-be-a-character rushed onwards with what he hoped would be a soliloquy…

“Yes, you were all grumpy and didn’t want to stay up and said something about dreaming up a story,” his wife’s interruption had sufficient arch to convince him to let go of his resentment at the lost allegory or whatever the term in rhetoric might be.

“Well, I gotta say, I had a dark and restless night,” they each laughed to themselves, the better to propel the narrative, “and I had the most amazing lucid dream / fan-fiction mashup ever; I found myself in an episode of Community knowing I had to write my story so I ran around an elementary school screaming how I needed a pen and paper; Annie Edison (Alison Brie) was there and she offered me one, complete with that uber-cute head tilt thing, but every piece of paper she gave me had writing on both sides, I was starting to get a little crazy,” the man, trying to raise his hand to prevent a comment, found it was trapped somewhere between his wife’s breast and arm was resigned to having to go full-on stream-of-consciousness, “And the first and second graders were running around and laughing when Jeff Winger (Joel McHale) burst through these double-doors like to an auditorium or cafeteria, with an older-but-still-hot woman on one arm and pointing at me, said with a triumphant rise in volume, “We’ll see you there tonight and don’t forget to bring…” and I shouted, “a good dip!!”

The man, turning towards his wife, further tourniquet-ing the couple to each other so almost all he had available to ask the big question were his eyes, desperate for approval but willing to settle for permission.

“Kinda meta,” the waterbed seemed to ebb an invisible inch of tide, “But I love the show so, I totally enjoyed your little story.”

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. One requirement: story length to be 6 sentences.

previously…

Prompt Word:

EVEN

“Hello Diane; Lou, he’s here, right?”

The HVAC system of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge was state of the art, however the smoke particulate levels on a busy Thursday night would shame any 18th Century opium den or most church-basement AA meetings during the 1950s.

That said, the owner, Lou Ceasare, was known to decide his memories of growing up on the mean streets of the capital city should be shared and, with a call to his plumber, (the one who had a license to practice his trade, as opposed to anyone in his employ who might have added a reference to the tools of the trade, i.e. Seymour the Hammer or Lester Two-hands) and have the state-of-the-art, Health Department mandated air conditioning system shut down until closing or if one of his dancers complained, only then, waving his imported Cuban cigar like a thurible in a dark mass benediction, would he relent,

“Like a fuckin’ lagoon before the real predators show up, ya know what I mean?”

If a person, customer, performer or staff was in Lou’s company at such a moment of reminiscence, they would vigorously assert their knowledge of what the man in the last booth was asking.

Among the societal and cultural values of the myths of ancient times was to provide a variety of agencies to act as intermediaries between Man and Deity; they came in all shapes, sizes, dispositions and genders, the hostess of the Bottom of the Sea, Diane Tierney, if suddenly cast back in time, would be a shoe-in for the role of Semele.

“Yeah, Ian, but even if you’re a favorite at the moment, I’d advise you to keep your sentences short and your demands even more so,” she reached halfway towards my arm, seemed to think twice and, instead, walked towards the last booth on the right; she didn’t even once look back to see if I followed her.