Hostile Intent (Revamped) - Page 8 - Writers Forum

NaCl · 04-22-2008, 06:33 PM

Several decades in the past, I immersed myself in the study of nuclear physics, hoping to one day solve humanity's long term energy needs. During a mandatory philosophy class, my one required paper (on which, the entire semester's grade depended) was to examine the contrdictions between existentialism and the dogma of modern science. When the graded papers were returned to my fellow students, mine was omitted. Instead, the professor asked me to remain in the classroom after everyone left.

Needless to say, my anxiety grew as I contemplated every possible reason, some stretching to the quite absurd, as to why my paper failed some vague academic standard.

When the classroom door closed after the last student left, the professor held out a single sheet of paper to me. Obviously, it was not my lengthy treatise exploring the relevance of existenialist views of Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, against such concepts of modern physics as the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle and Relativity. The piece of paper, a letter on very fine stationery, noted that no undergraduate student had ever been invited to join the university's Society of Philosophers. Virtaully all present "fellows" held PhDs, mostly in philosophy. It went on to say that they were pleased to make an exception for me, based on my observations about philosophy and science...a paper that they had all reviewed.

My professor grinned, almost gleefully, as he presented me this great honor. His jaw hung slack when I declined the invitation. It was beyond his comprehension that anyone with such a grasp of modern existentialism...especially a person who concurrently displayed a thorough understanding of both traditional and modern science...could possibly reject the chance to debate philosophy with such learned "peers".

I consented to attend one meeting, to answer their questions about this incongruency.

Philosophers can be an arrogant crowd, looking down their noses at the uninformed around them. They label such people as "Naive Realists", essentially, commoners among the educated nobility.

I answered their "Why? question, as follows: "After studying the ideas of the world's greatest philosophers, I learned that it is far more noble to live life with humility, and respect for others, than to sit on a symbolic throne, pontificating, ad nauseam, about alternative realities. Starving children need food. Warring nations, need diplomacy. The unemployed need jobs or training. The sick need medicine. And...all human beings should be appreciated. With full knowledge of principles of modern philosophy, I consciously CHOOSE to be a Naive Realist."

I then stood up, retrieved my semester paper...graded A++...and left the room.

Hugowin reminds me of those arrogant intellectuals I rejected so very long ago; full of self-righteous contempt for everyone they deem inferior, and never in doubt about their own superiority. Ironically, such people are only significant if the victims of their assaults grant them recognition. Otherwise, they wallow in the intellectual filth of their own tiny worlds.

Erdhexe said it best...don't feed the troll!

.....NaCl

Sam Winchester · 04-24-2008, 02:36 PM

Chapter Three

Labour

For the third time in as many days, Frank Clemence noticed the maroon van outside his place of business. Most people would have shrugged it off as nothing other than a coincidence, but in Clemence's line of work, he allowed himself no room for error.

The windows were tinted, denying him any indication of who sat behind the wheel - if anyone at all. As his intuition played up, he wondered if it could be happening again. It had been fourteen months since the last one, and the perpetrator of that had sacrificied his life for nothing.

No, it couldn't be, he decided finally. There was just no sense doing it anymore. Bank robbery had become as dangerous as flight hijacking. The smart robbers kidnapped a hacker to electronically wire the money to their account. The stupid ones still did it the old-fashioned way. For the most part, their reward was either jail or death.

You're getting paranoid in your old age, Frank, Clemence told himself, taking his eyes off the van for the first time in ten minutes, and concentrating instead on his lunch break, only twenty minutes away.

To his right, his partner stood, one hand holding a cigarette, the other his mobile phone. He was saying something like "what are you wearing?" to the person on the other end, but Clemence had tuned out everything except the van.

'Okay, I'll see you later, honey. Love you. Ciao,' Charles Greaves replied, slapping the phone closed.

Ciao! Clemence muttered to himself. It was one of many things his partner said that drove him mad. 'When you've finished chatting up your girlfriend, Charlie, check out the guy in the green suit. Looks suspicious,' Clemence ordered, eyeing the latest arrival. His job as a security guard was neither satisfying nor well-paying, but it had its quirks.

'And what exactly does suspicious look like, Frankie?' Greaves replied, a little annoyed with Clemence's attitude towards him speaking with his girlfriend.

'Just do it, Charles,' Clemence replied, further pissing Greaves off. He only called him that when he wanted to get his undivided attention.

Greaves stormed off, leaving only Clemence guarding the door of the World Bank in Washington, D.C..

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the Ford van, the driver loaded his sawn-off shotgun. 'You ready for this?' He looked to his partner.

'I am.'

'Good. Let's go.'

In the passenger seat, Michelle Kwan shoved a clip into her pistol and nodded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'Well?' Clemence queried, the impatience clear in his voice.

'He's clean,' Greaves responded.

'He looks - '

'Yeah, he looks like a pimp. Last I checked, you can't be arrested for impersonating those. Maybe the fashion police might have a better chance. I mean, who the hell wears a green suit?'

'I got married in a green suit.' Clemence glared at his partner.

'No shit?' Greaves looked temporarily embarrassed, but then found his rebuke: 'Yeah, well you're Irish.' Good job you didn't get married in a field, though, he didn't add.

'So? It's not a fucking tradition! Just shut up already, Charlie.'

'You're a goddamn asshole at times, you know that, Frankie?'

'Thank God my shift's over in ten minutes. Any longer and I'd probably kill myself.'

The argument had done little other than distract Clemence, who now looked up to find two new people entering the bank, one wearing a bulky overcoat and shoddy pants, the other a one-piece dress and stiletto pumps.

What the hell? Were Bonnie and Clyde reincarnated and someone forgot to tell me? The joke remained funny for only the length of time required to remove a shotgun from beneath the overcoat. Clemence's grin disappeared instantly, replaced by a look of fear as the words not again echoed through his mind.

For some dumb reason, the owner of the bank had asked for Clemence and the other security guards to relinquish their pistols after the last bank robbery. His request bordered on insanity, Clemence had told him, but the plea fell on deaf ears. He'd said that they weren't cops, and therefore should leave the business of handling guns to those who were trained to do so.

So now Clemence had but a single weapon to use, a miserly baton, which offered no protection against even a knife wielding lunatic, much less a robber with a sawed-off shotgun. He did, however, have another very important item.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Washington, D.C. is not a particularly smart place to choose to rob a bank. Especially the World Bank, which is little more than a mile away from the FBI Headquarters, and considerably less from the White House. But given that both the Secret Service and the FBI generally don't respond to bank robberies, Clyde Reid's decision came somewhat easier.

Pulling a mask over his head, Reid bellowed, 'Everyone on the fucking floor. Now! '

Inevitably, some of the bank's patrons started screaming, others stood motionless, caught in a state of paralysing shock, while the rest, including Greaves and Clemence, obeyed the command.

As Clemence lowered himself to the ground, he reached into his holster and clicked the SEND button on a special phone. The phone was essentially a large panic button that relayed a signal to the nearest police station. Having never used it before, Clemence did not realise that it sent a report back to indicate that the panic signal had been successfully received. This report came accompanied by a loud bleep that did not escape the attention of Reid.

'On your fuckin' feet!'

Though he had seen his face for only a matter of seconds, Clemence knew he was black. But the girl had pulled her mask on before he'd had a chance to see her face. Still, he knew he was dealing with a dangerous man, and so he got to his feet as quickly as his age and flexibility allowed.

'What was that noise?'

Thinking quickly, Clemence replied, 'My alarm to remind me it's lunchtime. I'm getting forgetful in my old age.'

Reid appeared to be placated by the reply, and Clemence almost breathed a sigh of relief, before Reid yelled. Bringing his shotgun above his head, he smashed the butt of it across the side of Clemence's head, felling him in an instant.

'Don't fuckin' lie to me! You just called the cops, didn't you?' Turning his attention back to more pertinent matters, Reid sauntered over beside one of the tellers, while instructing Kwan to stay alert.

'Fill them now!' he ordered, producing three large bags. The teller hesitated for a moment, but Reid's shotgun convinced him to proceed.

The cops were coming, Reid knew. They were probably already out of the station. All that was to be expected, though. If the security guard hadn't called them, someone outside would have. For the past three days he had driven all the routes from here to the nearest police station - the Metropolitan Police Department on Indiana Avenue. Keeping to the speed limits so as not to attract attention, he'd learned that the quickest route took fifteen minutes to drive. The response time of the police would be approximately half that. So he'd given himself a window of six minutes from he entered the bank until he left it. Two of those had already gone.

'Get a fuckin' move on!'

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've slightly altered the first part of the third chapter, and added this part to it. Any opinions appreciated.

Maybe someone could clear up one question for me: are any security guards in banks armed? Here they certainly aren't, but I wasn't sure about America.

Sam.

Jax1108 · 04-24-2008, 02:53 PM

Wow, Sam thats a good question. In the banks I have been too, I honestly haven't seen a security gaurd. *shrug*
I imagine they would be in the bigger banks. And in America, I can guess that they are also armed. I can't think of what here isn't

joifulartist84 · 04-24-2008, 06:25 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Sam Winchester

'Well?' Clemence queried, the impatience clear in his voice.
'He's clean,' Greaves responded.

'He looks - '

'Yeah, he looks like a pimp. Last I checked, you can't be arrested for impersonating those. Maybe the fashion police might have a better chance. I mean, who the hell wears a green suit?'

'I got married in a green suit.' Clemence glared at his partner.

'No shit?' Greaves looked temporarily embarrassed, but then found his rebuke: 'Yeah, well you're Irish.' Good job you didn't get married in a field, though, he didn't add.

'So? It's not a fucking tradition! Just shut up already, Charlie.'

'You're a goddamn asshole at times, you know that, Frankie?'

'Thank God my shift's over in ten minutes. Any longer and I'd probably kill myself.'

The argument had done little other than distract Clemence, who now looked up to find two new people entering the bank, one wearing a bulky overcoat and shoddy pants, the other a one-piece dress and stiletto pumps.

What the hell? Were Bonnie and Clyde reincarnated and someone forgot to tell me? The joke remained funny for only the length of time required to remove a shotgun from beneath the overcoat. Clemence's grin disappeared instantly, replaced by a look of fear as the words not again echoed through his mind.

For some dumb reason, the owner of the bank had asked for Clemence and the other security guards to relinquish their pistols after the last bank robbery. His request bordered on insanity, Clemence had told him, but the plea fell on deaf ears. He'd said that they weren't cops, and therefore should leave the business of handling guns to those who were trained to do so.

So now Clemence had but a single weapon to use, a miserly baton, which offered no protection against even a knife wielding lunatic, much less a robber with a sawed-off shotgun. He did, however, have another very important item.

I'm not sure of the POV in this section. It seems to be Greaves, but then switches to Clemence. Same in the next section, switching from Reid to Clemence and back again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Washington, D.C. is not a particularly smart place to choose to rob a bank. Especially the World Bank, which is little more than a mile away from the FBI Headquarters, and considerably less from the White House. But given that both the Secret Service and the FBI generally don't respond to bank robberies, Clyde Reid's decision came somewhat easier. (Reid's POV)

Pulling a mask over his head, Reid bellowed, 'Everyone on the fucking floor. Now! '

Inevitably, some of the bank's patrons started screaming, others stood motionless, caught in a state of paralysing shock, while the rest, including Greaves and Clemence, obeyed the command.

As Clemence lowered himself to the ground, he reached into his holster and clicked the SEND button on a special phone. The phone was essentially a large panic button that relayed a signal to the nearest police station. Having never used it before, Clemence did not realise that it sent a report back to indicate that the panic signal had been successfully received. This report came accompanied by a loud bleep that did not escape the attention of Reid. (Clemence's POV)

'On your fuckin' feet!'

Though he had seen his face for only a matter of seconds, Clemence knew he was black. But the girl had pulled her mask on before he'd had a chance to see her face. (Wouldn't the guy's hands or neck tell him the same information? And seeing the girl's hands would tell him at least that she's pale, right? What relevance does this have to the story? Does he know he'll need to identify the man?) Still, he knew he was dealing with a dangerous man, and so he got to his feet as quickly as his age and flexibility allowed.

'What was that noise?'

Thinking quickly, Clemence replied, 'My alarm to remind me it's lunchtime. I'm getting forgetful in my old age.' <---- Good one!

Reid appeared to be placated by the reply, and Clemence almost breathed a sigh of relief, before Reid yelled. Bringing his shotgun above his head, he smashed the butt of it across the side of Clemence's head, felling him in an instant. Is he knocked out? Or do I find out later?

'Don't fuckin' lie to me! You just called the cops, didn't you?' Turning his attention back to more pertinent matters, Reid sauntered over beside one of the tellers, while instructing Kwan to stay alert.

'Fill them now!' he ordered, producing three large bags. The teller hesitated for a moment, but Reid's shotgun convinced him to proceed.

The cops were coming, he knew. (Now Reid's POV)They were probably already out of the station. All that was to be expected, though. If the security guard hadn't called them, someone outside would have. For the past three days he had driven all the routes from here to the nearest police station - the Metropolitan Police Department on Indiana Avenue. Keeping to the speed limits so as not to attract attention, he'd learned that the quickest route took fifteen minutes to drive. The response time of the police would be approximately half that. So he'd given himself a window of six minutes from he entered the bank until he left it. Two of those had already gone.

'Get a fuckin' move on!'

The POV changes were very abrupt and somewhat confusing. Were you going for omnicient? I'm not sure.

Maybe someone could clear up one question for me: are any security guards in banks armed? Here they certainly aren't, but I wasn't sure about America.

Sam.

I'm not sure of the answer to your question, Sam. In D.C., I can almost guarantee a "yes" because of the crime rate there, but in the banks near my house, I've never seen a security guard, much less a gun. I do know that the armored car guys that pick up our daily bank deposits carry pistols, but they have to be out before the mall opens. So I would imagine that the bigger banks would have armed security guards.

Keep it coming!

Sam Winchester · 04-24-2008, 06:43 PM

'Well?' Clemence queried, the impatience clear in his voice.

'He's clean,' Greaves responded.

'He looks - '

'Yeah, he looks like a pimp. Last I checked, you can't be arrested for impersonating those. Maybe the fashion police might have a better chance. I mean, who the hell wears a green suit?'

'I got married in a green suit.' Clemence glared at his partner.

'No shit?' Greaves looked temporarily embarrassed, but then found his rebuke: 'Yeah, well you're Irish.' Good job you didn't get married in a field, though, he didn't add.

'So? It's not a fucking tradition! Just shut up already, Charlie.'

'You're a goddamn asshole at times, you know that, Frankie?'

'Thank God my shift's over in ten minutes. Any longer and I'd probably kill myself.'

The argument had done little other than distract Clemence, who now looked up to find two new people entering the bank, one wearing a bulky overcoat and shoddy pants, the other a one-piece dress and stiletto pumps.

What the hell? Were Bonnie and Clyde reincarnated and someone forgot to tell me? The joke remained funny for only the length of time required to remove a shotgun from beneath the overcoat. Clemence's grin disappeared instantly, replaced by a look of fear as the words not again echoed through his mind.

For some dumb reason, the owner of the bank had asked for Clemence and the other security guards to relinquish their pistols after the last bank robbery. His request bordered on insanity, Clemence had told him, but the plea fell on deaf ears. He'd said that they weren't cops, and therefore should leave the business of handling guns to those who were trained to do so.

So now Clemence had but a single weapon to use, a miserly baton, which offered no protection against even a knife wielding lunatic, much less a robber with a sawed-off shotgun. He did, however, have another very important item.

I'm not sure of the POV in this section. It seems to be Greaves, but then switches to Clemence. Same in the next section, switching from Reid to Clemence and back again. (I agree with you on the next part, between Reid and Clemence, but I don't see where you got confused on this one. The POV, I thought, was clearly Clemence. Maybe I was mistaken.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Washington, D.C. is not a particularly smart place to choose to rob a bank. Especially the World Bank, which is little more than a mile away from the FBI Headquarters, and considerably less from the White House. But given that both the Secret Service and the FBI generally don't respond to bank robberies, Clyde Reid's decision came somewhat easier. (Reid's POV) (Yes, I agree. But is it confusing?)

Pulling a mask over his head, Reid bellowed, 'Everyone on the fucking floor. Now! '

Inevitably, some of the bank's patrons started screaming, others stood motionless, caught in a state of paralysing shock, while the rest, including Greaves and Clemence, obeyed the command.

As Clemence lowered himself to the ground, he reached into his holster and clicked the SEND button on a special phone. The phone was essentially a large panic button that relayed a signal to the nearest police station. Having never used it before, Clemence did not realise that it sent a report back to indicate that the panic signal had been successfully received. This report came accompanied by a loud bleep that did not escape the attention of Reid. (Clemence's POV)

'On your fuckin' feet!'

Though he had seen his face for only a matter of seconds, Clemence knew he was black. But the girl had pulled her mask on before he'd had a chance to see her face. (Wouldn't the guy's hands or neck tell him the same information? And seeing the girl's hands would tell him at least that she's pale, right? What relevance does this have to the story? Does he know he'll need to identify the man?) (Not really sure. Perhaps he might have to identify later) Still, he knew he was dealing with a dangerous man, and so he got to his feet as quickly as his age and flexibility allowed.

'What was that noise?'

Thinking quickly, Clemence replied, 'My alarm to remind me it's lunchtime. I'm getting forgetful in my old age.' <---- Good one!

Reid appeared to be placated by the reply, and Clemence almost breathed a sigh of relief, before Reid yelled. Bringing his shotgun above his head, he smashed the butt of it across the side of Clemence's head, felling him in an instant. Is he knocked out? Or do I find out later? (Later)

'Don't fuckin' lie to me! You just called the cops, didn't you?' Turning his attention back to more pertinent matters, Reid sauntered over beside one of the tellers, while instructing Kwan to stay alert.

'Fill them now!' he ordered, producing three large bags. The teller hesitated for a moment, but Reid's shotgun convinced him to proceed.

The cops were coming, he knew. (Now Reid's POV)They were probably already out of the station. All that was to be expected, though. If the security guard hadn't called them, someone outside would have. For the past three days he had driven all the routes from here to the nearest police station - the Metropolitan Police Department on Indiana Avenue. Keeping to the speed limits so as not to attract attention, he'd learned that the quickest route took fifteen minutes to drive. The response time of the police would be approximately half that. So he'd given himself a window of six minutes from he entered the bank until he left it. Two of those had already gone.

'Get a fuckin' move on!'

The POV changes were very abrupt and somewhat confusing. Were you going for omnicient? I'm not sure. (No, wasn't going for omniscient. Just bringing in a new POV, which wasn't meant to confuse. I'll see if I can fix it.)

Maybe someone could clear up one question for me: are any security guards in banks armed? Here they certainly aren't, but I wasn't sure about America.

Sam.
I'm not sure of the answer to your question, Sam. In D.C., I can almost guarantee a "yes" because of the crime rate there, but in the banks near my house, I've never seen a security guard, much less a gun. I do know that the armored car guys that pick up our daily bank deposits carry pistols, but they have to be out before the mall opens. So I would imagine that the bigger banks would have armed security guards.

Keep it coming!

Thanks again for the read and critique, Joi.

Sam.

NaCl · 04-24-2008, 10:43 PM

Sam,

My son is a licensed, armed security guard. All their company's contracts involve protecting property against vandalism and theft. For example, our local electrical utility company was experiencing a terrible theft rate of high voltage switches in their rurual energy stations. The switches contain a lot of copper which they sell to scrap metal dealers for cash to buy drugs. My son and his co-workers drive around on a random basis all night to prevent such theft. They are armed with 45 caliber handguns, stun guns, pepper spray, baton, handcuffs and video equipment that records their activities outside the front of the patrol car.

In addition to property protection, they have been hired by local merchants in high crime parts of our city to supplement the official police. My son averages two "arrests" per week of people in the act of committing felonies...anything from armed robbery to assault and battery. Technically, those arrests are "citizen's arrests" that are then transferred to the jurisdiction of the real police. So far, he has sustained a 100% conviction rate on all his citizen's arrests because of the video recordings and other evidence he provides for the police.

As far as bank security guards, all the local banks in my area hire ONLY unarmed "security" guards. Those men and women serve two primary functions; they are professional witnesses expected to provide additional information such as descriptions of getaway cars, and the deterent value of their uniforms dissuade potential criminals. There are a few other theories my son told me about, reasons for using unarmed security guards in banks. In no particular order, they are 1) the sight of guns make some people/customers nervous (even in the hands of the good guys), 2)collateral damage in a shooting might cause a huge lawsuit against the bank, and 3) some criminals reflect the level of deterence in the act of robbing the bank, i.e. the presence of an armed security guard might cause some robbers to escalate their own level of violence.

Hope this helps.

.....NaCl

NaCl · 04-24-2008, 11:07 PM

Sam,

As far as the POV changes in this chapter, I enjoyed them. I thought they added to pace.

Your writing is exciting because it provokes the reader to anticipate. For example, at the end of this chapter, Reid's careful planning could easily fall apart. Armored car pickups at banks are never scheduled on a regular basis to prevent planned robberies. I kept reading for that critical moment when two armed transport guards entered the bank for a delivery, long before the police arrived. Then, Reid has to improvise...OR...???????

Good story!

.....NaCl

Sam Winchester · 04-25-2008, 04:10 AM

Thanks for the info, NaCl. That's a great help.

Thanks for the read and a brilliant idea! Never thought of that. Reid could have done all his planning for weeks, and then be foiled by something he hadn't even considered!

See, that's why I love this forum!

Thanks again.

Sam.

Gate · 04-25-2008, 04:12 AM

Gate · 04-25-2008, 04:12 AM

Gate · 04-25-2008, 04:12 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Sam Winchester

Author's Note:

New part added on page 8

Chapter One

Beginnings And Endings

Derek Butler would never know why he stopped. The fuel gauge still gave him at least forty more miles, and he knew he could add roughly another five to ten on top of that before the car stalled. But he did stop. And so began the worst ten minutes of his life.

The dashboard clock read ten A.M., and the sun had just risen over the tips of the Appalachian Mountains, obscuring Butler's view of the road ahead; another reason to stop for a breather. In the passenger seat, his girlfriend, Michelle Chan, listened to her Ipod as she tried to doze off. There was still another ten hours journey ahead of them, and she wanted to be fully rested when they arrived at her parents' house. She was dreading the meeting already. They'd met Derek on a couple of occasions, but this one was different. This time, Derek was asking Daniel Chan for his daughter's hand in marriage, and while Derek wasn't sweating it in the least, Michelle was terrified. He didn't know her father like she did.

Butler woke his girlfriend from her fitful sleeping. She jumped when he touched her, and Butler stifled a laugh. The evening before, he'd inticed her into watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and suffice it to say no sleep was had afterward.

'Shit,' Butler exclaimed. 'I almost forgot about gas. We're gonna need to fill up at the next station, Michelle.'

'I don't think that's a good idea. Daddy's (My Dad's) (Just seems like daddy is wrong for a mature woman to say) expecting us before evening, and you know what he'll be like if we're late.'

Butler didn't understand her fear of her father. 'Relax. We're not going to be late. I'm not going to stop for long. I'll fill her up, have one coffee, and we're on our way. You're not the only one who's tired here.'

His jibe didn't sit well. 'And just whose fault is that, Derek! If you hadn't made me watch that damned film(movie) (I haven't heard anyone really say the word "film " in conversation in a long time ) last night, I wouldn't have spent the night tossing and turning, and you would have got more sleep!'

Butler loved when she was mad. Her face would lose some of its colour, and her most beautiful features emerged. He'd remarked many times that if she'd been an American, she would have surely been a fiery redhead. 'Calm down. Listen, I have to stop for gas anyway, so just relax, and we'll be out of here in a few minutes.'

A minute later, Butler eased the car in off the country back-road and into a lonesome service station. A sign above its pumps read, 'McKay's Service Station'. Another sign below told him it was the last one for some seventy miles. Butler parked his car beside the petrol (petrol sonuds like a european is speaking not someone heading to Philly) pump and killed the ignition. He was surprised that, a few minutes later, no one had appeared to fill it up. (almost no full service pumps in america today)

'Some service,' he muttered, grabbing the hose and filling it himself. When it was full, he opened the door, retrieved his wallet from his coat, and asked Michelle if she wanted anything.

'I think I'll come in.'

Butler didn't like leaving the car unattended, but decided that, in a place as devoid of activity as this, it wouldn't be stolen.

The hum of an air conditioner greeted their entry into the shop, and Butler sighed with pleasure. The car's AC system had been busted for months, and the fan was a poor substitute.

'Good morning. What'll it be?' A grey haired man in his mid fifties asked. His name tag read 'Billy'.

'Fifty dollars on pump number 1, Bill. And I'll have a cup of coffee. What about you, Michelle?' (In a gas station food mart where ever youll probally make your own coffee)( ice cream??? middle of nowhere served by the attendent ...It's doubtful)

'I'll take a cone with chocolate, thank you.'

'Sure thing. What brings you to this neck of the woods? You aren't locals?'

'No, Philly, actually - well, she's from China orginally,' Butler added, which annoyed Michelle. 'We're heading for Pittsburg.'

'Pittsburg? I'd say you're going to need more than one of these then,' Bill said, handing over a mug(mug? maybe a styrofoam cup this is back woods america right?) of coffee. 'Why'd'n't you take the highway?'

'Sightseeing.'

'Ah,' Bill nodded.

'How much will that be?'

'Fifty five dollars and twenty cent.'

Butler handed him sixty and told him to keep the change. (very unusual)

'Much appreciated. Have a good time.'

For some reason, perhaps curiosity, Butler circled the shop instead of going straight for the entrance.

A minute later, the sound of a chiming bell announced the arrival of a new customer. Butler couldn't see him clearly from his position at the back, but he immediately knew something was amiss. The temperature was in the mid eighties, yet the guy was wearing a long raincoat. The weather forecast didn't give rain at all today. Butler desperately wanted to get out of the shop, and realised he should have gone when he had the chance. Moving quietly, he turned the corner at the bottom of the store, and eyed the exit door.

'A fine morning to you, sir. How can I help you?' Bill asked.

'Twenty dollars on pump 3.'

'Sure thing. You want anything else?'

'No. Busy morning?'

Butler thought it weird that he'd ask such a question.

'Nope. You're my first customer.'

'That so? Good.'

Butler didn't know why Bill had lied, but he didn't get much time to think about it. The new guy tossed the raincoat aside, revealing a sawn-off shotgun, and pointed it directly at Bill.

'All right, cowboy. Take it easy there. I'll open the cash register.'

'Just shut up and do it!'

Butler thought about making a break for it. The robber's back was to him, and if he was quiet enough, he could reach the door without alerting him. But that meant leaving behind Bill. So what, he thought. I don't even know him. And he wasn't going to get the chance to, either.

The blast was deafening. Butler had to cover Michelle's mouth to keep her from screaming.

Shotgun pellets radially disperse at one inch every yard of travel. At that point-blank range, Bill took approximately all the force directly to his chest, firing( the gun is fired maybe thrusting him would be better) him back against the wall with a sickening thud. The robber picked the money off the counter, turned, and fled out the only exit door.

Butler told Michelle to stay where she was, while he went to check on Bill. The discovery wasn't unpredictable. Bill was already beyond saving.

'Let's go,' Butler whispered.

'What?' Michelle asked in a shaky voice.

'I said let's go!'

'What happened?'

'It doesn't matter. We have to get out of here before the cops come. Come on!'
Why??
Butler rushed back to his car and helped Michelle inside. He leaned his head back on the headrest and wondered what the hell to do now. It was then that he saw it. Parked directly beside the front door was a large Cherokee jeep. How he'd missed out on the way out was a mystery. And then it hit him. He'd erred. Badly. Perhaps fatally.

He turned his eyes to the mirror. The robber smiled, revealing a hideous mouth with only about two or three teeth. He let out a laugh, and lifted his shotgun to Michelle's head...

ELEVEN MONTHS LATER

Chapter Two

Rehabilitation

Being dead for three minutes was the highlight of Derek Butler's existence. Technically, he should have remained that way; yet, he was alive, but death would have been far more humane.

He knew at the time he shouldn't have stopped, but the reality was that hindsight did nothing for him now. For all intents and purposes, Butler's life was over the second he pulled into the gas station.

For the past eleven months, he'd revisited it in his mind hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times. Well on his way to becoming an insomniac, Butler had also to deal with the excruciating pain of rehabilitation, and a physical therapist who was a pain in the ass. Of course, that was Dr Orthmeyer's job. He had to browbeat, lest his patients give less than a hundred percent.

'Mr Butler, there's a gentleman here to see you.' A nurse called from the door, startling Butler from his reverie.

'Dr Orthmeyer?'

'No. He's Chinese, by the looks of it.'

Chinese? It took a moment for Butler to understand. Immediately, images of Michelle swam into his thoughts. 'Tell him I've got a session with Dr Orthmeyer and that he'll have to wait.'

'I already tried, but he was insistent. I believe he even paid the doctor a hefty sum to take an early lunch. Your session has been postponed. He's waiting outside. I'll show him in.'

No! Butler's mind screamed, eyes darting around the room for another exit. The window, but he was on the fifth floor. Besides, he couldn't get very far even if he wasn't.

Daniel Chan had never, in eleven months, paid a visit to Butler. What the hell does he want with me now?

The nurse exited, and immediately the visitor stepped into the room. He was dressed impeccably in a three-piece suit, with matching shoes and briefcase. He looked like any other Oriental male - black hair, no real distinguishing features - but he wasn't Daniel Chan.

'Good morning, Mr Butler. I'm Hideo Nakasoto. I've been sent on behalf of Mr Chan - '

'Regarding what,' Butler replied.

Unfazed by the interruption, Nakasoto continued, 'Mr Chan would like to pay all your expenses from hereon, including your rehabilitation.' His English was also impeccable. He sat the briefcase on a table and flicked the latches.

'What! ' Butler snapped. Moving his wheelchair forward until he was beside Nakasoto, he continued in a deep growl, 'I've been sitting in this chair for almost a year, going through hell, trying to keep from going insane, and now, after all that time, Mr-fucking-Chan decides that he's gonna part with some of his precious money? Tell you what - take your fucking briefcase and get out of my sight.'

'I beg your - '

'No, but if I had the full use of my body, you would be begging right now. Take your briefcase and leave. Now! ' Butler may have been confined to a wheelchair, but he hadn't lost his ability to intimidate.

'I'm sorry you feel that way. Very well.' Nakasoto closed the briefcase and walked with a purpose to the door. Before leaving, he turned and said, 'You will be hearing from us again, Mr Butler, and next time, you mightn't like what we have to say. Good luck with your rehab.' He exited before Butler could make a riposte.

Fuming, Butler roared, 'nurse!'

The nurse returned to the room quickly, startled by Butler's cries. 'Yes?'

'Take me down to the lobby. I need to make a phone call. And when I get back, I want my session with the doc.'

'Very well.'

As the nurse wheeled him toward the elevator, Butler lightly touched his back, fingering the scars from the operation, and wondered how long it would be before he could fully walk again.

Sorry about the length, but any input is greatly appreciated. Thanks.

Sam.

Sam, your writing is technically sound ...just some of things like I have highlighted don't ring true today.....it makes it somewhat unbelievable and well....( written ) still its a great start to a wonderful story I wish my technique was half as sound as yours
Gate

Gate · 04-25-2008, 04:20 AM

sorry about the multipost I'll read more later sam hope you dont mind my 2cents
gate

Sam Winchester · 04-25-2008, 04:20 AM

Thanks for the read, Gate. Thanks for alerting me to those things that I missed. Sometimes you can read over your work a million times and miss them.

Cheers for the kind words. From what I've seen of your writing, your technique is good also.

Sam.

Sam Winchester · 04-25-2008, 04:21 AM

Why would I mind? The more feedback the better. Thanks again, Gate.

Sam.

Raging_Hopeful · 04-25-2008, 04:24 AM

Quote:

Prologues are really unnecessary, I've learned - and it was hard to, because I always used them beforehand.

Sam. I think I love you. Let us join forces and spread "Prologues are for ninnies!!" all across the vast lands of literary strangeness.

But seriously, I've been trying, trying, TRYING to convince people that they really really are not needed. A literary crutch allowing the author a clumsy aside instead of making the more complicated (and therefore much better) effort of integrating that information into the story itself.

Cheers,
Linz