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Member
Join Date: Nov 2004
Posts: 8
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Lost For Ideas....
Have had this for several months, can't think of a storyline to go with it... It has a lame attempt at starting, but doesn't get much further than that.
There was nothing remarkable about the door. A simple, old wooden door, older than the alleyway it stood in. Around it, the brickwork was coming loose, the doorjamb did not fit, and a gap of nearly two inches allowed all sorts of weather to flow inside. It had been painted once. Flakes of what could have been a nice shade of green now fell like dandruff onto the bald doormat. In the top half of the door, was a window, frosted glass, the name “G E T T ING P I E ” was written slightly off-centre, in faded gold letters. Not much could be seen through a window like that. However, quite a lot could be seen through the jagged chip missing from the bottom right corner.
Behind the door, expensive shoes soaked in mud from the alley a man was ruining his suit, kneeling down to peer through the hole. Sitting his briefcase beside him, he watched the scene inside carefully.
The bottom of the one-room apartment was flooded. It had rained during the night, splashing down underneath the door, and down the step inside, filling up like the bottom of a shower, if one stands on the plughole for too long. Pieces of paper and post-it notes floated about amongst the ratty furniture, bowls bobbed about like boats, most still half full and mouldy. A lamp stood flickering to itself, and a small beagle puppy whined helplessly inside a wooden milk crate. In the middle of it all, was a cheap chipboard desk, piled high with papers.
‘Perfect.’ The man murmured, picking up his brief case, and turning the door handle. All evidence suggested the door would not be locked. It opened in a shower of paint flakes, allowing him to step inside, to the only high ground in the room. Confidently, despite squelching shoes, he waded over to the desk, and the man asleep on it. ‘Excuse me? Mr String?’ he asked politely, rapping his knuckles against the surface loudly.
String woke with a start, tearing his face out of now crystallised coffee spilt during sleep, and looked up blearily.
‘No… I’m the queen of England.’ String replied sarcastically, removing a post-it note from his forehead, reading it over before he threw it into the water behind him. ‘Yes, I’m Gilbert String, and I seem to have forgotten to collect my dry-cleaning. How can I help you?’
The other man ignored his sarcasm, pulling up a sodden chair, and sitting reluctantly on it. A family of mice scrambled out of the cushion as he did so, jumping for their lives into the make-shift boats. He gave Gilbert a weary smile, and sat the briefcase on the desk.
‘I have a mission for you, Mr String.’ He spoke quietly, looking around carefully for anyone else listening in on the conversation. Gilbert’s eyebrows rose. It had been some time since he’d had a case, the man had his full attention now.
‘Ahh… well, well… I have been rather busy lately…’ Gilbert lied, shuffling around important looking pieces of paper, mainly notes to himself to pick up his dry cleaning. He always managed to forget, no matter how many he wrote. ‘What did you wish me to do?’
The man smiled, amused. Playing hard to get? Interesting… he sighed, two could play at this game, and Edward Sullivan made up his own rules.
‘If you’re too busy, Mr String, I’m sure I can go elsewhere… after all, I don’t want you to work yourself to death. Maybe you could give me a name of someone else who isn’t so busy? Someone in the agency, perhaps?’ Gilbert’s jaw dropped, and he shook his head, throwing the papers off the desk, and laughing nervously.
‘Work? To death? Me?’ he laughed again, forcedly. ‘No, they were all boring cases anyway. I’m sure yours will be much more interesting!’ Edward nodded, a satisfied smile spreading across his face, and he offered his hand to the shaking Mr String.
‘Excellent, excellent.’ He said smoothly. ‘Edward Sullivan, founder and manager of Class Recreation And Protection Enterprises. CRAP, for short.’ Gilbert nodded, slowly. Edward beamed proudly. ‘We supply services to the rich, a network of theme parks, art galleries, music halls, body guards, we just recently bought the secret service.’
‘What, like the FBI?’ Gilbert hadn’t known the FBI was for sale. Edward shook his head slowly.
‘No, Mr String. The secret secret service. Everybody knows about the FBI, there’s no point in buying a secret service that isn’t secret!’ he shook his hands, frustrated. ‘I’m talking about the Asterix! What do you know about them?’
‘They’re secret?’ Gilbert hazarded a guess. Sullivan’s eyes bulged, and he clapped a hand over Gilbert’s mouth quickly, looking furtively around for spies. Carefully he released Gilbert, and sat back down, again dislodging the mice who we trying to remake their home in the cushion.
‘Shh!’ he hissed. ‘You know too much already.’ He stood again, taking the briefcase from the desk. ‘Come with me, Mr String. I’ll explain on the way.’
‘Of course.’ Gilbert stood as well, post-it notes fluttering into the water. Walking away from the desk, he rescued the puppy, and gave Mr Sullivan a brisk nod. ‘When you’re ready, sir.’
The limousine was parked outside the door. In fact, the limousine was parked outside several doors, across one intersection, through a small tunnel, a little up the hill, and half still in the garage. Having never ridden in anything larger than a bicycle, Gilbert’s eyes bulged.
‘I know.’ Mr Sullivan said forlornly. ‘It shrank in the wash.’ Gilbert shook his head in disbelief, following the businessman into the car, sat himself down on a rather cushy looking couch, and tried to look professional.
‘Now… ahh... Mr Sullivan…’ he began, jumping in surprise as his voice echoed back to him. ‘This case, tell me about it.’ Sullivan nodded, and took a deep breath.
‘You see, Mr String, this is a case I cannot trust to just any member of my business. It is a matter of utmost delicacy.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I think there may be some… people… within the company who would like to see themselves in my shoes rather quickly…'
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~*~ The White Mouse ~*~
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