jamie's
February 13th, 2012, 09:54 PM
''Honey...! I'm off to work!''. Emerson closed the carved wood door of his mansion, and headed for the corridor down the stairs which lead him to opening another door and seat in his car. Only seconds later, Jackie Anne, or Jay, his unwedded wife, lifted up the phone receiver.
''Hello…? Owen there? … Yeh, ok…'', she put the receiver down, approached the window, and saw Emerson's car and its last vanishing turn behind the forest. She sat on the sofa. She was nervous on the sofa leather.
After some time she gave it a thought, stood up again and lifted the phone receiver. She put it back after having dialed a bit. All arround her were paintings of famous modern artisans. She strolled to the place of the around $50,000 worth piece of art on the wall and moved it left and right a bit. The phone underneath the art rang.
''It's me.'', she replied.
''I don't know…'', she was with insecure voice staring at the painting. ''He's on his way…I suppose…Yes.'', she finished the short conversation. Shortly after she closed her recently started list of phone numbers. She had added onother phone number to it.
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Owen had no business being there, really, but his task givers were unhappy with his performences. So here it was. ''Em'', for Emerson: his new task. His employer was running amok.
''You have to incriminate him! What do you think I'm paying you for!?''. ''To do my job, sir.'', answered Owen seriously and patiently, as he was expecting more from the bold man infront of him. The man obviously didn't seem to have finished his explanations.
''She asked for you!", he finished his explanation.
''I shall do precisely that, sir. ''The Black Manoeuvre'' is the code name, sir. And she is absolutely reliable. I was told to explain it to you. One more thing, sir. Come with me, please.''
Owen and the bold man left the room only to come to a smaller one, in the centre of which there was a broad table with an immense quantity of sheets on it. Owen came to the other end of the table and took the sheet needed.
''This is what it is going to look like, sir.'', Owen's long arms reached the other end of the table quickly and handed the document over to the man.
Then the sheet was being read carefully, several times. After that, the bold man made a grin, as if to mean that he didn't quite understand what was being demanded from him. It was all written down. Signature and stamp.
''I…I do not know what to say… Owen, are you sure that the instructions are these?'', trembled the sheet in his hand.
Owen owned him now. No more yelling and nonsenses from this imbecil.
''Yes, I am.'', came out of Owen.
''Leave the premises now!'', ordered he.
The boldy, whom Owen had always called ''the One-Eyed Willy'', had something to say or stutter. ''Never mind'', uttered Owen and quickly summoned the guards who were innocently walking about the strange, unknown labyrinthic space all that time, the time that seemed to have ran out having produced a failed chit-chat. They took the baldie by his hands and got him off Owen's sight, displacing the man's black bondage from its place on his right eye.
''Out with you… Out. Out!''
All was clear now. All seemed to be clear now. All had to be clear now. Owen didn't know many things. He had to engage his connections: make his first phone calls that day.
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Emerson was waiting at the traffic light. A group of citizens began to push each other. After some time, kicking and spitting was taking place.
''Stupid jerks.'', thought Emerson, after he didn't have to wait anymore for the car in front of his to start its engine and finally change place a bit.
He soon passed by the group who had to face the policemen.
''Stupid jerks.'', thought Emerson as he turned his face off the policeman who was doing nothing but leaning on the police vehicle. ''There goes my tax, there goes my saloon tax…'', exhaled Emerson, and turned right.
He came to another crossroad, and turned right. He reached the arranged place of meeting.
There was something special about that place, but Emerson wasn't able to exactly put his finger on it. It was something about the buildings' walls, yes. Maybe. They were covered by insinuating graffiti, and the place where he had parked his car was the only free place to park. ''Freedom'', crossed his mind. How nice and unpleasant did that word seem then. Weird.
''Weird'', no one was showing up, and he had been waiting for twenty-five minutes, and fifteen or so seconds. The time passed. He entered his car again. A certain car behind the saloon turned on the minute he took shelter in his saloon.
The roar of the engine soon became silent.
''Hello, Em. We haven't met for a while, have we?'', the human sound reached Emerson from his left. He opened the window entirely, feeling as if he was in a dream or something like that... Had he been standing, he would've fallen on the ground, precisely between the saloon of his comfort and the jeep of his nightmare.
(...)
''Hello…? Owen there? … Yeh, ok…'', she put the receiver down, approached the window, and saw Emerson's car and its last vanishing turn behind the forest. She sat on the sofa. She was nervous on the sofa leather.
After some time she gave it a thought, stood up again and lifted the phone receiver. She put it back after having dialed a bit. All arround her were paintings of famous modern artisans. She strolled to the place of the around $50,000 worth piece of art on the wall and moved it left and right a bit. The phone underneath the art rang.
''It's me.'', she replied.
''I don't know…'', she was with insecure voice staring at the painting. ''He's on his way…I suppose…Yes.'', she finished the short conversation. Shortly after she closed her recently started list of phone numbers. She had added onother phone number to it.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Owen had no business being there, really, but his task givers were unhappy with his performences. So here it was. ''Em'', for Emerson: his new task. His employer was running amok.
''You have to incriminate him! What do you think I'm paying you for!?''. ''To do my job, sir.'', answered Owen seriously and patiently, as he was expecting more from the bold man infront of him. The man obviously didn't seem to have finished his explanations.
''She asked for you!", he finished his explanation.
''I shall do precisely that, sir. ''The Black Manoeuvre'' is the code name, sir. And she is absolutely reliable. I was told to explain it to you. One more thing, sir. Come with me, please.''
Owen and the bold man left the room only to come to a smaller one, in the centre of which there was a broad table with an immense quantity of sheets on it. Owen came to the other end of the table and took the sheet needed.
''This is what it is going to look like, sir.'', Owen's long arms reached the other end of the table quickly and handed the document over to the man.
Then the sheet was being read carefully, several times. After that, the bold man made a grin, as if to mean that he didn't quite understand what was being demanded from him. It was all written down. Signature and stamp.
''I…I do not know what to say… Owen, are you sure that the instructions are these?'', trembled the sheet in his hand.
Owen owned him now. No more yelling and nonsenses from this imbecil.
''Yes, I am.'', came out of Owen.
''Leave the premises now!'', ordered he.
The boldy, whom Owen had always called ''the One-Eyed Willy'', had something to say or stutter. ''Never mind'', uttered Owen and quickly summoned the guards who were innocently walking about the strange, unknown labyrinthic space all that time, the time that seemed to have ran out having produced a failed chit-chat. They took the baldie by his hands and got him off Owen's sight, displacing the man's black bondage from its place on his right eye.
''Out with you… Out. Out!''
All was clear now. All seemed to be clear now. All had to be clear now. Owen didn't know many things. He had to engage his connections: make his first phone calls that day.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Emerson was waiting at the traffic light. A group of citizens began to push each other. After some time, kicking and spitting was taking place.
''Stupid jerks.'', thought Emerson, after he didn't have to wait anymore for the car in front of his to start its engine and finally change place a bit.
He soon passed by the group who had to face the policemen.
''Stupid jerks.'', thought Emerson as he turned his face off the policeman who was doing nothing but leaning on the police vehicle. ''There goes my tax, there goes my saloon tax…'', exhaled Emerson, and turned right.
He came to another crossroad, and turned right. He reached the arranged place of meeting.
There was something special about that place, but Emerson wasn't able to exactly put his finger on it. It was something about the buildings' walls, yes. Maybe. They were covered by insinuating graffiti, and the place where he had parked his car was the only free place to park. ''Freedom'', crossed his mind. How nice and unpleasant did that word seem then. Weird.
''Weird'', no one was showing up, and he had been waiting for twenty-five minutes, and fifteen or so seconds. The time passed. He entered his car again. A certain car behind the saloon turned on the minute he took shelter in his saloon.
The roar of the engine soon became silent.
''Hello, Em. We haven't met for a while, have we?'', the human sound reached Emerson from his left. He opened the window entirely, feeling as if he was in a dream or something like that... Had he been standing, he would've fallen on the ground, precisely between the saloon of his comfort and the jeep of his nightmare.
(...)