3 pages of a novel, why not? :D
pages 353 - 355
Who knows why this segment in particular, I just like Charles Stravon =D
Charles liked his office telephone. It had the traditional look. It was also big and red. It even had the old turn-dial on it. Slow, maybe, but it was completely brilliant. That didn’t need explaining. He had just received a very important phone call. He liked that. He, the prime minister, had just received an important, urgent phonecall. That would never get old. That was brillant, that was classic. How important was he?!
The dim glow of the crackling fireplace was soothing, and in finding it that way, Charles knew he was getting on a bit. He spun his chair round and faced the large window in front of him, milkshake in hand. The night was calm and unspectacular. The A.C.R.O.N.Y.M survivors - no, A.C.R.O.N.Y.M had been found in - what was that town called? No-one had told him it’s name.
Incompetence. His informer would get fired for that. Why not? He could if he wanted to. Firing people was a thrill. He always made sure he could see their face when the news was broken to them. One of those priceless moments.
What was he thinking about? Oh yeah, .A.C.R.O.N.Y.M had been spotted in that place.
He chucked his milkshake in the bin. Tried to, anyway. He heard a dull thud indicating that it hit the floor instead. He looked round. The bottle wasn’t especially close to the bin, either. Turns out there was more milkshake in there than he thought. Was. The now peppered walls and carpet were absorbing the thick, brown liquid like thirsty sponges. Meh. Someone would clean it up.
Ha. Someone would clean up his mess. Some one had been assigned a job to clean up after him. They were amere shadow of him. Just inferior. In every way. Not that everyone else wasn’t - it was just great that it had been made official for some unlucky sod. The same went for his assistant. In fact, being prime minister was a step up from everyone else in the country. He was officially more worthy thant everyone else. Nice to have it factualised.
What was he on about again? Didn’t he have something to do? There was definitely something… something to do with bring the prime minister… and the… the big red phone! There was a phone call and he needed to get someone… needed… GENERAL VINCENT FALCON! Ouch. He thought those words a bit loud. But yes. How did he contact him? Oh yes, of course - the phone!
He dialled the general. He now disliked the phone. The turn-dial feature was irritating. It took too long and he found himself rolling his eyes and exhaling loudly between each dial. There were three 9’sinthe General’s personal mobile, for heaven’s sake! He would order a new phone for his desk - one that wasn‘t a turn dial, then order the general to get a new phone number.
Just because of the inconvenience it had caused him now. He didn’t usually use the big, red phone. He used his mobile. But why waste the credit, he realised, when he could pretend like he was using the big, red phone for official phone calls? A crafty man like himself needed only a year to come up with this ingenious ploy.
“What is it?” sighed General Falcon, his tone implying that he knew who was calling.
“Oh, hi, General Vincent Falcon, it’s me, Charles Stravon, prime minister of Great Britain."
“… You don’t have to repeat that whole utterance every time you call me.”
“Ooh, utterance, aren‘t wefancy? And I do it because I want to make sure you know exactly who’s talking.”
“I know its you calling every time the phone rings.”
“What, nobody else calls you, general? No-one?”
“No, it tells me whose ringing when it rings,” said Vince, impatience noticeable.
“Oh,” said Charles in understanding. “I thought it was because you have no friends, Vince. Y’know… no friends. None. That‘s why I thought you knew it was me. Y‘know… because you have no friends.”
“Are you calling me for a reason, or are you just lonely?” Vince asked in an attempt at a reasonable rebuttle.
There was a pause so long at Charles’s end, Vince thought he must have abandoned the phone.
“Hello?… Mister Stravon?”
“Oh, sorry, I was trying to remember which one it was.”
“You’ve got pretty bad memory, Charles. I’d get your head checked out.”
He had done. Many times. But not for any reason relating to memory.
“Charles, murder me. Slice up my limbs and tear out my heart.”
“I don’t have a bad memory. I just get distracted easily. My mind’s always buzzing.”
“Buzz saws are good for cutting through even the toughest bones on a human body. Even the rock-hard cranium splinters before its razor-sharp destruction and speed. Hear the crackling of my severed skull as you plough through it like a - you spacing out on me again?”
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Murder Me
 118,073 words into novel: 'Nocturne'. Click above to read the first chapter!
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