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, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.
Prompt word:
RELAY
“Any word from our gumshoe?”
It has been suggested by some in the arcane field of Ontological Linguistics that the first language was not developed by Man, rather it’s origin was among the apex predators just before humankind rushed the stage like a primordial Kanyé and wrestled the mike from the lions and the crocodiles.
Lacking only a pith helmet, (plentiful in the strippers’ prop room), a whip, (way plentiful) and a wooden chair, (the classics never disappear completely), Diane Tierney, hostess and de facto business manager for the strip club half of Lou Caesare’s establishment, leaned across the booth,
“Nothing since he left yesterday, a gap in time Olympic relay racers would disregard; however, if you want, I’ll reach out to his admin, Hazel, see if our detective has set up an update schedule.”
“Good thinking, Diane, that broad’s got her shit together, don’t know why she stays with Devereaux, at least not after I made her an offer…” the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge laughed his crocodile laugh through a cloud of cigar smoke. Allowing himself to be captured by his manager’s raised eyebrow response, waved his hand to disperse the smoke, “Pardon my French.”
They both laughed; the stripper on stage, Rita Spring, heard them and missed the next-to-last clump of crabgrass of her costume and, in a desperation move, went right to her hardscape finish.






