Thread: Backlash(temporary title)- the new chapter one

NEW YORK, USA


He allowed the end call tones to chime in his ear for a while after the call was not picked. His dark face split with a grin of satisfaction. Slowly he placed the headset back on the cradle of the phone on the table with his gloved hand as if not to disturb the old lady with glassy eyes staring ahead in the dimly lit room. He decided to talk to her.


“No matter what, he’s in now anyway” he said, as if to divulge her of an intense secret.


She didn’t reply as she continued to stiffly stare foreword as if in defiance of nature, with her glassy unblinking eyes. She struck the picture of an ancient aristocrat, her forearms folded neatly on lap, sitting on her massive wooden chair behind an equally massive wooden desk on which was scattered paperwork, a pair of drinking glasses and a bottle. Her silvery blonde hair was piled like that of a Russian czarina.


A solitary air-conditioner hummed, almost noiseless in the silence of the soundproof room.


Hmm, he thought, pity she was this old, he could have done her like he ha always wanted to. He licked his lips with saliva almost drooling from his mouth, inspired by a depraved memory.


“Have to take my leave ma’am”, he tipped his dark hat, “will certainly see you much, much later”.


He replaced the bottles from where he had gotten then and brought out his handkerchief to wipe the phone and other things he touched, after which he used it to wipe his face of slight moisture as he studied the scene. The spinster Madame surely had taste that is if judging by these vintage paintings that hung from the walls and the beautiful blooms that adorned the office. Exceptional. Wondered how he hadn’t noticed them before. Really he must have been away for long.


As an after thought, he reminded himself to wipe some other things like the banister he touched on his way in to meet this appointment. He strolled casually to the oak-paneled soundproof door, which he opened, tipped his hat one more time at the lady behind the desk and slipped out as mysteriously as he came.


Strangely, she continued to look ahead unperturbed, with an unwavering stare in rigor mortis.

Please, i need reviews and criticism, there's also a follow up part two

RSD has highlighted pretty much everything, I think. My advice is to just break up your sentences more and use commas to make sure that they read nicely. The mysterious hints work well though.

Keep at it,
CS

Sentances are way to long. One idea per sentance, otherwise we get confused. I certianly did.

Be careful about reversing the chronological order of events in your sentances. If something happens fist it should normally be mentioned first. Using the word 'after' slows things down and adds to the confusion.

All in all I have absolutely no idea what happened.

Thanks to the you guys especially rsd for being so thorough.if i knew you personally, i would have given you something. I know my work smacks of inexperience in writing novels but i guess it's poco a poco.now to edit my first draft...

Originally Posted by orakle

if i knew you personally, i would have given you something.

Simply read and comment on my peice Link in my signature.

hello guys,
i'm posting the edited versions of the 'backlash' chapters 1. after that i'll continue with chapter 2. still need your comments. disregard the other posts, the thread will continue here.

Chapter one

New York

He allowed the end call tones to chime in his ear for a while after the call was not picked up. His now had a grin of satisfaction on his face, which had been stiff with anticipation as he made the call. With a gloved hand he placed the headset back on the cradle, which sat upon the table. He did not wish to disturb the old glassy-eyed lady who stared blankly into the dimly lit room He decided to talk to her.
“No matter what, he’s in now anyway,” he said as if to divulge her of an intense secret.
She didn’t reply. She continued to stiffly stare forward, as if in defiance of nature, with her glassy unblinking eyes. Her pose was like that of an ancient aristocrat, with her forearms neatly folded on lap. She was sitting on a large ornately carved wooden chair behind an equally massive wooden table. Paperwork was strewn across the table, with a pair of drinking glasses and a bottle spoiling the impression of a seriously busy work desk. Her silvery blonde hair was like that of a Russian czarina, tied into some sort of mini tower.
A solitary air-conditioner hummed in the soundproof room. It brought some measure of organized sound into the otherwise silent and now eerie abode.
Hmm, he thought. Pity she was now this old. He could have done her like he had always wanted. He swallowed to stem the spillage of saliva from his mouth, its flow inspired by a depraved memory.
“Have to take my leave ma’am.” He tipped his black hat, “Will certainly see you much, much later.”
He replaced the bottles from where he had gotten them. He brought out his handkerchief to wipe down the phone and other things he touched. After this small exercise, he used it to wipe his face of slight moisture as he studied the scene. The spinster Madame surely had taste, if taste was judged by these vintage paintings that hung from the walls and the beautiful blooms adorning the office. Exceptional, why hadn’t he noticed them before? He thought. Maybe all his travels have opened his eyes to luxury.
As an after thought, he reminded himself to wipe down some other things he touched on his way in to meet this appointment, like the banister. He strolled casually to the oak-paneled, soundproof door. He pulled the door open, then tipped his hat once more at the still lady behind the desk. He slipped out satisfied that she continued to look ahead unperturbed, with an unwavering stare in rigor mortis.

xxxxx













He was walking along the avenue from the lady’s office with the cool early morning breeze ruffling his clothes and overall. He was puffing rich dark smoke from the fat cigar between his lips, into the faces of early morning joggers passing by. Damn this people, who really wanted to live long? He might even have to ‘wack’ them one of these days.
He paused in his stride, looked at his watch and grimaced. He was supposed to make a call at ten A.M., and the stupid time never seemed to come. He was like a hunter waiting for the kill with armpits drenched with sweat. This time they weren’t drenched in anticipation of the killing. He was going to contact his boss, the ‘Cosimo’, whom he didn’t know, and that always gave him the creeps. The man always sounded dangerous on phone, which he really was. He was going to contact him on the status quo.
There was a payphone across the street. He crossed the road without looking as the early morning traffic screeched to a halt and rained curses on his stiff behind. At this moment, he cared less. Normally somebody would have lost some teeth. He would have increased the demand for gold teeth instantly. He grinned at his personal joke.
A mass was in the booth. A fat middle-aged woman with breasts like udders was squeezed into it with the door closed. He rapped on the glass and grinned politely, making a sign that she should either hurry up or end the call. He gave another sign with a raised first finger, one minute. She raised her own finger and it was the middle one, with a scowl on her ugly face. F**k me? From under his overall, he showed her the tip of the silver revolver on his waist. She scurried out like an overweight hen, throwing glances behind her in panic as she bounced away. He had ten minutes. She would surely call the cops from the nearest secure area.
He dialed exactly at 10am. The call went through immediately, it never delayed. A cold metallic voice answered, the ‘Cosimo’.
“How did it go?” His voice was deep and crisp.
“It went Fine boss.” The man they call souse almost winced at the sharpness and seeming closeness of the Cosimo‘s voice.
“So they’re in now?”
“Yes boss.” Souse could imagine Cosimo moving the pieces on the chessboard in his psycho-maniac brain.
“Lie low for a while for things to cool off. I’ll buzz you when it’s time for phase two.”
“Yes boss.” That was all he was allowed to say as a reply.
“And souse…”
“Yes boss?”
“Remember not to call me with your phone even if it’s an emergency. You do a good job but you’re lousy on the follow up”.
“I always do my best boss.” Souse’s voice was firmer now in reaction to the spite on his competency. Was he not Souse, the hand of death?
“What did you say?”
“I, I…”
“Never mind, just remember what I said”. He hung up, without pleasantries, leaving the phone blaring in Souse’s ear. The Cosimo was always like that, mysterious and eccentric.
He checked his time. It was eight minutes past ten o‘clock in the morning. He had two minutes to walk afar from the booth. He left the booth to a black man who was itching to rush in, brushing his shoulder. He started to walk away briskly.
He heard the sirens when the cops came and stopped by the booth. By then, he was a hundred feet out. He brought out his small binoculars. Sweet air of pleasure gushed into his nostrils, sucked in as the binoculars hit his eye. He didn’t miss seeing the Negro being slammed into the glass of the payphone booth with his hands behind his head. Damn, he really missed the white Negro hating clan that he belonged to in his youth. When they were caught and disbanded, the cops took away the only fun he had in this town.
But it really felt good to be back.


xxxx

Chapter two

Seattle- early hours of the next day

The phone was ringing, and it woke him from sleep. His fingers pranced around the side table looking for the light switch. He finally found it, click of the switch submerged by the disturbing blare from the phone. He groaned in agony before answering the phone with a deep grunt. His lips seemed to be glued together and he was sweating. He had taken too much gin before sleep; picked up the habit to combat insomnia.
“Hello!” His lips were forcefully pulled apart. The reply he got was phone static. He was normally not his patient self at this time of the night; not when the blessed fiends of sleep had reached the crescendo of their silent mental lullaby. It was two o’clock in the morning, and the darkness was ghoulishly still. A voice finally came through the phone speakers, annoyingly low in decibel and pitch despite the silence.
“I have a problem that I need to be solved.”
This was certainly business, curt and straight to the point. He was in no mood for it.
“Maybe you need to get your head fixed and call back in the morning. Who the hell gave a lunatic my number?”
“There’s a deadline that I have to meet, I might run into trouble if you don’t help me.” The man continued like the Watchman hadn’t shooed him off. With sleep now drumming on his head, he decided to make himself clear.
“Look man, I got principles. Whoever gave you my number should have told you that I don’t get called at night.”
“I’m willing to pay big for your time; I work for a big corporation.” This man was a complete nagging pushover. The Watchman rolled over in annoyance. He knew that he wasn’t thinking right, but he didn’t care.
“Even if you work for William Gates himself, I don’t give a ‘frigging’ shit!” He was about to bang the phone on him.
“I’ll pay you in six figures for you time, please…” the voice was unwavering despite his behaviour. He scratched his head, those last words appealed to some part of his brain.
He banged the phone anyway. The money offered was relatively stunning for him, but it was all about setting principles. What principles? He rolled about on his bed trying to reassure himself that some unknown ‘principles’ were the main reasons for banging the phone.
He was still bleary eyed and weak but his brain was now booting. Hell! He didn’t care. He clutched the sheets and wrapped them tighter around himself. He tried to slip back into the darkness but the money was singing a song in his brain. To hell with those goddamned principles, he rolled over and dialed that last number that called him.

xxxx










The first plan, after much is said and done, is to always succeed in executing the preconceived notions in your head. Nothing is gained by not getting the targeted prey in the end. To do that you had to find that chink in the armour, the usually consistent slit through the dark curtain on the window covering the knowledge that even sophisticated gossips can’t convey. Ruthless men are those that have so many dirty secrets that they are willing to kill and cover them up. They are actually the easier jobs because they leave traces of blood all over to be smelt by bloodhounds.
Bloodhounds like him, the Watchman, at the window table in the café, with an untouched steaming cup of coffee in front of him, observing D.C. Murphy from across the street.
Why was he here? He had called that night caller back. He was in the café along a West End boulevard, neck deep in business on the day after he was contracted.
He stared obliquely at D.C. Murphy as he got out of a stretch limousine with a bevy of bodyguards. He was trying to make sure that he was not seen to be staring. Observers from far off may think that he was admiring the condom advert billboard in his line of vision. Creating that effect came only with practice.
As his mark talked into a door phone at the derelict building, he got that thrill that ran down to his toes. The thrill that goes with knowing that a hunt will go as planned and then turns out to be successful. In addition to that, there is an unexplainable pleasure that comes with the knowledge that beyond the puritan curtain lay the single bony finger sticking out of the closet. That bony finger is the perfect hinge for squeezing out results.
So, who was D.C. Murphy? D.C. Murphy was the typical everyday high society prey. They had the same basic beginning, the same monotonous history, the same splendid results and disappointingly, the same faults. He was born to a rich white American dad and a puritan Quaker mom. He was given the ‘perfect business heir’ stamp of a name, daddy’s name (he was actually D.C. Murphy the second). His mother finally dragged from his ‘bottle swirling, marijuana smoking ways’ into dad’s business. Sadly, he replaced his father when the depressed man jumped off a hotel balcony during a vacation in Paris. The poor bloke had to avoid the eternal ranting of his wife. Jumping the balcony was the only option left for escape.
Now, he was wearing his oversized Dad’s shoe. He married the devout catholic daughter of a Texan oil tycoon who only loved to sew eighteenth century clothes. The only place she could think of for a summer vacation was the Vatican, year in, year out. He was tired of his home, his big house on a ranch. He hated being surrounded by people who expected him to be one particular thing. This was his only outlet and that made him easy to catch. The solution was simple after some investigations, just stake out the rat hole and beat the hell out of his compromised ass. I pitied him but business was strictly and still, business.
He suddenly snapped out of his thoughts to realize that his vision was steamy. He lost sight of the target. It was a dim cold evening indeed, it was drizzling. The fiery snout called his nose had been pouring hot breath on his cold low-lying glasses, misting them. He cursed silently, wiping his lenses quickly with the sleeve of his blue shirt. Murphy was nowhere in sight but it didn’t matter anyway. Where he was now was predictable. He had Murphy’s whole routine in his head but he would have preferred it if he had actually seen him enter. Seen details are almost everything.
He snapped out his mobile phone and dialed a number. It buzzed only once in his ear as an anxious finger on the other end picked it. A deep grim voice came on.
“Do you have him yet?” No pleasantries. That was the way in this business.
“No, but I’m about to…” He glanced at his watch. “…in ten minutes.”
“You will have to run faster, I’m due for the meeting in five minutes.” He snapped
“Don’t worry sir, I always guarantee delivery precisely on time.”
Then the grumbler almost hung up on him which was a mistake he was not going to make again.
“Wait…” The Watchman said. The time was ripe for the actual bargaining. This was the crucial moment for accruing more funds.
“What’s the matter?”
“I want a hundred grand.”
“What?” He snorted right into the Watchman’s ear.
“I can’t take the risk of going faster for peanuts.” He paused to let it sink in. “Two hundred grand or nothing.”
He had him now, he was sure. The threat was there in his steely, calm, professional voice. It was simple; argue more, push the bargain and it only raises the price. If you refuse, the final result is that you lose millions because of a signature on paper. The meeting was holding in four minutes time. He was just proving that he was no cheapskate in the business. To be called up very early in the morning was a veiled insult. Let the client pay for that affront, indirectly.
“Okay, I’ll pay half the money into your account now. Just get the job done!” He hung up abruptly leaving a disgusting blare in the Watchman’s ear.

xxxx


















D.C. Murphy must be whimpering now on the verge of sexual explosion. His secret whore with two fatherless kids must have taken him to that level by now. His call his call had taken two minutes.
He crossed the street with measured calm steps motivated by two hundred grand. Success was near with a bonus, the relish of the grueling squeeze.
Passing the bodyguards at the main door of the building was easy. The bulldogs eyed him suspiciously as he slid an access card through detector of the door lock. The welcoming buzz that signaled the opening of the door finally took their attention away. The landlady stared at him from her small booth in the drab lobby as he passed by. Recognition finally lit up her scowling face. Yes, He was the new guy. He gave her a thumb up. He just rented one of her rundown apartments yesterday for $500. He smiled at her in hidden disgust. The tired old lady won’t retire from collecting small cash.
The dinghy elevators looked risky, so he took the creaky wooden stairs running up all the way to the fifth floor. Another stiff bullnecked bodyguard in pinstriped suit was standing outside Apartment twenty. It was not planned for but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t expected. He had to act swiftly as time was running short. He fumbled with the keys to apartment nineteen. Two shots from a metallic tranquilizer dart gun fished out of his pocket when the guard looked away as was all that was needed. The bulldog clutched his thick red neck as he slid to the floor quietly and conveniently. He had five minutes. He strode into Apartment twenty unimpeded except for the difficulty of picking the lock which was solved by just kicking the door in. He was now looking at the startled faces of two people in positions made for tabloid heaven as D.C. Murphy’s curses were stifled in mid speech.
He paused for an imaginary photo shoot. Gosh! Why didn’t he end up as a reporter? Here was the perfect headline ‘Whoring brunette holding phallus of a married CEO of a Mega-corporation’. It was so implicating that he wished he had a camera for this one.
His phone was already in my hand instinctively dialing a number. It buzzed three times and somebody grunted a ‘hello’. He gave it to D.C. who received it with a perplexed look on his face. He quickly brought out an envelope from which he pulled sharp pictures taken of them in more frenzied but less picturesque positions than this live scene.
“Tell your assistant to agree to the terms of the deal, he must be in the meeting now.” He heard his own voice; it was cool, threatening, impressive.
He hesitated and almost refused before the Watchman showed him the moral and psychological killer. It had the two key players in the sex story just like the others but it was his intimate fetish. Its public exposure could kill him. D.C. Murphy did not need to say anything else; his mouth was open in astonishment.
“Mr. Stein, please sign the deal documents”. He was croaking now. He paused as his eyes glanced over the picture again, “Don’t argue with me. Just sign the goddamned agreement.”
He was talking too much. The Watchman took his own phone from him and hung up for him.
“Rest assured that none of this will get out.” He said it as he dumped the pile of pictures for him. He smirked at the femme fatale reclining on the big lush bed in the substandard room as he left. He paused to knock out the bodyguard who was groaning on the floor. He used his boots to crush the wireless communication receiver on the guard’s waist.
He walked past the bodyguards at the front door with no trouble, which had been expected and planned for before the receiver was crushed. He almost called one a fag to cook up trouble and action so he could flex his upper limbs. Nevertheless, he was relieved. They didn’t know that they won’t have jobs by tomorrow.
He dialed the number of his client.
“How did it go?”
“Perfect.” The client was obviously pleased and surprised at how things turned out, which added to the Watchman’s pleasure. “I just wired the rest of the money with an earned bonus, thanks.”
With no reciprocal thanks, he hung up. He couldn’t tell who would be next for scrutiny, it may be this client. It had happened before. Let him pray that he would never fall under the Watchman’s scrutiny. The only thing he ever bothered about was his own karma.

any thoughts, recommendations, criticism?

please, i need a critique. any one?

NEW YORK- Same evening

Sanna Walls cared less for the noise. Her fat boss was screaming, driving himself into a boiling frenzy. Donovan Peebles, a balding round man in his early forties was the prototype of utmost civility and calmness. It was solely because he had that crooked banker look. This time he had lost it, spewing saliva in all directions of his glass office in a bid to prove something rather angrily. Sanna covered her face in what seemed like shame from the reproach but she was too naughty for that. She was shielding her face from the torrents of watery abuse flying in all directions. Some specks of saliva landed on the back of her fingers. She wiped them on his massive leather-covered table.


“You can’t be allowed to ruin my paper! You are totally aware that CEO of Transcom committed suicide over a similar article last year. I took a lot of political and financial flak from that your piece of debauchery.” He was glaring at her as he pranced around, to and fro, behind his swivel chair. He continued his tirade.


“My magazine is primarily published for glamour and glitter. I did not build this empire for extra-nosy people, stupid bitches and people who do not know their place in society. Certainly didn’t build it for them to use as a tool for preying on the high and mighty, people who happen to like and buy my paper, but have the misfortune of being involved in shady deals and sexual escapades! And come to think of your nerve, and metallic plumb line guts, you just turned in another ‘serial killer’ article. Yes you really, really crave for that certain kind of attention and applause that is really going to kill me. But no, no, on, you’re definitely leaving; you might earn a clap somewhere else. You’re… You’re…”


He was panting now in obvious exertion as he waltzed round his office. A wheeze was clearly audible. He stooped and took a few puffs from his inhaler.
“… Fired.”


Sanna stiffened; she acted as if she was stunned. She was used to this sort of tirade every time she turned in her ambitious reports. It had started after she politically blunted his randy advances towards her. Her hands slowly slipped off her face to reveal hazel eyes, a beautiful heart shaped face with a contradictory wide toothy grin fixed on it. Mischief was certainly on the way.


“If you fire me…” At times like this she was picked her words carefully, rolling them out slowly so that they could sink in clearly.


“… I’ll go to Kaufman.” And that was all she needed.


Peebles suddenly stiffened like if cold water had been poured on him. He sat down slowly with his hand on his chest as if in pain. He missed the centre of his seat and had to make do with the hand. He sprayed something under his tongue that he fished out from his breast pocket. He probably also had a bad heart.


Kaufman was putting it lightly, the more unethical boss of the ‘Missile words’, the main rival of our kamikaze paper outfit, ‘Torpedo life’. Both names sounded like stuffs from the cold war era. Sanna had always wondered how crazy the owners were to coin such names. One was seating in front of her now and she had to constantly stifle the urge to ask. She laughed silently. He surely hated and feared Kaufman because there was glistening moisture on his forehead in the cold air-conditioned office.


“Your bluff is well taken. You’re still fired.” He blurted .as he glared at her, after seemingly pondering on the consequences.


“As you seem to know me, and my serial killer article so well, I‘ll let you be the judge of that.” She smirked and glared back before continuing.


“Yeah, I must certainly be joking…” She was gesturing now, waving her arms in the air


“…in my wildest Caribbean dream of unreality.” She stretched out to pack her papers.


“See Miss Susanna Walls…” He was curt, stern now, his business tone had returned.


“You know that you can always call me Sanna” She cut in. She hated formality, it made her feel restricted in her roles as a female. He always used formality when the going got tough. He trudged on ignoring her interjection.


“…You can have you job back. Just remember that the very day Kaufman kicks the bucket, don’t bother coming to work and…”


He leaned forward, squinting to look menacing. Sanna also stuck out her neck combatively to look unwaveringly into his eyes.


“…if you ever breathe Kaufman in this office as a threat or worst of all, if Kaufman ever gets a whiff of this…!” He paused for emphasis, “I’ll cut you to pieces.”


She laughed heartily and hummed the named ‘Kaufman’ for a while. He sat on his seat and boiled in impotence. She cleared her throat audibly.


“That threat was quite disconcerting.” She was an expert in being satirical.


“Maybe it’s just the pure motivation to ask for an increase in wages of $5000. it is clear that I’m now worth more for being kept here against my will. Imagine putting my life at risk in the face being snuffed out at anytime for peanuts, and remember…”


She put her palms forward. “…Kaufman needs me.”


It was not a plea. It was a demand, which as usual is always legal blackmail, for those in control. His eyes had turned misty, he really wanted to cry. Money was no small issue for him even if it was peanuts.


“You’ll regret this later, I swear.” He sounded like he meant it but he rarely did mean anything.


His beady ratty eyes always glistened with moisture and the longing to run away, to the Bahamas, with the next Lolita that said ‘hi’. That meant leaving his menacing wife behind, whom he had threatened to divorce so many times. He never did, she was from a wealthy family with political links. That solved a lot of real problems, sweet Lolita could definitely wait.


So assuming all things being equal, once the profit starts rolling in from the sales motivated by her scandalous stories, he will suffer retrograde amnesia of the things that happened here. She would be his darling once more. Then he would smile like they were best friends and call her Sanna. She had ultimately gotten what she wanted, the salary raise. She stood to leave.


“Save your swearing for when my story debuts tomorrow. I better go and let my chief gape and relish the article that I just turned in.”


She was tapping his boiler buttons again as she dropped a copy of her report on his table. He will read it and publish it. It was that financially tempting. She had a smug smile of satisfaction and victory on her face.


She noticed that he was looking at her murderously as she left.