It’s Story #3!!!

Well, the title pretty much says it all.  Go read Story #3 is the Classics section.  Right now.

See you in 7,

the SotWC

 

A Brief Encounter (Story #98)

Well, good Thursday to you, dear reader!  Here’s hoping the day is treating you well and that sort of thing.  Well, that’s enough of a greeting for me.

So, as I re-read last month’s original story, “The Defenestrated Gorkon,” it re-occurred to me that it has been a long-standing theme here at the club to write stories about people who, for whatever stupid reason popped into my head that week, had no friends.  I said as much in the new intro “Alistair and Jinx and the Horrible Beast” a few weeks back, but it’s about to become more relevant.  Because it has moved me this week to write a story about a dude who has LOTS of friends.  That’s pretty much all I’m starting out with.  Well, that and the fact that I just saw an action-espionage film earlier this week.  Let’s see what happens.

A BRIEF ENCOUNTER

When it was all over, I had to admit that it hadn’t been as messy as I anticipated.  Of course there had been some blood and some screaming, but not nearly as much as I’d expected of either.  I got no plans to justify who I am or what I did.  But I don’t mind telling you what happened.  Let me back it up about seventeen minutes.

My hotel in Madrid was about what I’d come to expect.  Bold design, great views, warm lighting, rustic on the outside, modern-as-hell on the inside.  I stay at the nice hotels, see.  Was there a mini-bar in my room?  Yeah.  A flat screen TV?  You bet.  There was a buffet and a concierge and, I gotta say, it always amused me that they use the French words even in Spain.  That probably makes more sense than us using them in the states, but it still makes me laugh every time.  Call me simple, but that’s the type of thing I think about.

So, I walked into my room and, as expected, there was an envelope waiting for me on the bed.  Plain brown.  Document size.  It had my name handwritten on the front and nothing else.  I didn’t bother to look inside.  It wasn’t money, and it wasn’t going anywhere.  First I wanted a drink.  I cracked open that mini-bar and palmed three cute little bottles of gin.  Good stuff, you know?  Junipero.  Spanish name.  It’s a made in San Fran, but I’ve only had it in Spain.  Isn’t that something?

The cap wasn’t even off the first bottle when Titus walked into my room.  He didn’t kick in the door, he didn’t blow the lock off.  He just walked in, nice as you please.  Probably bribed someone for a key, but I’ll never know.

“Richter,” he said with a little smile.

“Titus Mondrian,” I said without one.  Then I twisted the cap on that first bottle.

He faltered just a bit when I said his name.  “That’s very good,” he returned, looking over his shoulder to make sure the door had shut all the way behind him.  Then he looked back at me with a little detour over to the bed on the way.  “I see you haven’t even opened your envelope.”

“I didn’t have to,” I said.  I took a tug on the cute little bottle of gin and turned to face him.  “That’s not the job, that’s just the instructions.  I already know something about you.”

“And I know something about you,” he said, and pulled out one of those little COP .357’s that has four barrels.  I always thought those things looked silly.  But he had it pointed at my face, and that makes any gun feel like a threat, even a goofy looking piece of hardware like that.  “Where’s your friend?” he asked with a pointed gaze at the gun in his own hand.

“Suit coat,” I said, pointing behind him to where I’d hung my jacket on the back of the door.  I sucked out the rest of bottle number one and reached for bottle number two.  He tensed up when I reached, but I just smiled and dropped the empty bottle on the dresser with a clatter.  When I picked up the next one he relaxed a little and started backing up to the door.  “Don’t move,” he said.  I laughed and unscrewed the cap.

He went searching for a bulge in my jacket and came up with no gun.  Because I didn’t have one.  He found the stiletto under the left armpit just fine, though.

“What’s this?” he said, pulling the blade from the shiv-pocket I had sewn there.

“I got a lot of friends,” I said.  “Not all of them are guns, wise guy.  I don’t need a compact off-duty to punch your ticket.”

"Titus & Richter" Art by Josh Judd

“This is hilarious,” he said, walking back toward me with my own blade held up in front of his stupid, smiling face.  “You think you can drop on me without a rod?  I knew you were coming before you knew you coming, sport.  Steelbook still uses my contacts and what?  He doesn’t think they tell me things?  They’re gonna turn on me just because of some long green?  Do you know who I am?”

“You’re a dead man with no friends,” I said, and took a swig from bottle number two.

Titus had the knife held up high and the gun held down low.  He started to say something smart, but I didn’t care.  I spit that great big swig of gin right in his face, right into his wide, ugly eyes.  At the same time, I swung my left arm down to deflect the inevitable shots from the .357, which were the loudest thing that happened here all night.  My right arm, I dipped and swung in a nice round arc until the tip of that bottle went right into Titus Mondrian’s little pug ear.  The bottle didn’t break like I’d hoped, but the neck went in deep and the contents bubbled on out.  I’ve never tried it, but from the way he lit up the night howling, I’m guessing gin in the ear canal is no picnic.

I turned him around like we were dancing and dropped him to the floor with a kick to the back of each of his knees.  I held his left arm in place and punched his right hand into the floor until he let go of the gun.  That, I threw onto the bed, where it landed right next to my envelope, which I decided it was time to open.  Kneeling on his spine, I said, “don’t move.”  He didn’t.

I grabbed the envelope and held it down close to his face.  “Steelbook sends his regards,” I said.  With that, I opened the envelope and dumped out my “instructions.”  They were new.  They were shiny.  And, man, were they sharp.  Hey, just because an envelope is document size doesn’t mean it’s gotta contain documents.

“I thought you said those were instructions,” he whimpered.

“They are,” I said softly.

That brings us to about ten minutes ago.  I’ve spent the time in between introducing Titus to all my new friends.

Like I said, I got a lot of friends.

THE END

Oo, it got all serious.  Hope you don’t mind; I guess it’s just the mood I was in.  Short, sweet, vague . . .  What’s not to like?  Come back next week and join us as we continue our “Classics” series.  What did we write to follow up the precedent setting “Rotten Apple Core Day“?  I don’t know.  Can’t remember.  Guess we’ll all have to come back and find out next week!

In 7,

the SotWC

 

Story #2!!!

The landmark, historic second ever Story of the Week, “Rotten Apple Core Day,” is now available for your perusal in the CLASSICS section!  Can you think of anything more grand?  Go!  Now!

Love,

Us

 

And Now We Come To It…

That’s right, faithful readers, this week we publish the very first “official” Story of the Week from way back in 1994.  Has it been so long?  Yes, Fin Raziel, it’s been that long.  Now, bop on over to the CLASSICS section and check out STORY #1!

Smooches,

the SotWC