Deus ex machina
December 21st, 1870
Henry Tupperware walked into the dimly lit room at precisely nine o’clock in the evening. He left his office exactly 13 minutes ago in order to arrive at the red-light district building in time for his appointment. It was a very important appointment.
On the bed was lying the mistress of the bordello, expecting his punctual appearance. Henry was always on time and nobody liked him due to this distinct lack of fashion.
“Do you have the document?” muffled Tupperware as he lit his pipe and waved the match to its extinction.
The mink-coated whore raised an eyebrow and gestured to her boudoir dresser, top drawer.
He walked over, each step making two distinct knocks, and examined the drawer’s contents with gloved hands. Nestled under the black and red silk lingerie was an envelope with the wax seal of Timothy Naughtiton, a.k.a. Butcher of the Bronx. Tupperware pocketed the envelope and spun on his heels to exit the room.
With his back to the woman and the aperture of the door framing his body, he paused.
“Mrs. Mole, your mind stinks of deception. Now, put down the pistol and slide it on the floor over to me.”
Mrs. Mole was presently kneeling on the bed, her mink coat sliding down one shoulder. In her shaking hands was the Alpha T6700 Laser Fusion Pistol, revision 5.6, with its reticule fixed on the back of Tupperware’s head. Check mate, old man.
“Give it up, Tupperware. You may be a telepath, but I know you skills terminate there. Now, unless you want a hole in your head as large as a hole slightly smaller than the size of your head, you’ll put your hands up in the air and get on your knees.”
But Henry’s pipe was no ordinary pipe. It was a flash bomb! Mole was blinded by the light instantly. Henry, on the other hand, let out a small chuckle and subsequently morphed into a pheasant and flew out of the edifice. Streaks of laser fire followed him out of the window, but to no avail to his assailant.
Damn, the shape shifter had eluded Mrs. Mole once again. But she had one comfort in his disappointing escape…it was pheasant hunting season.
Henry Tupperware walked into the dimly lit room at precisely nine o’clock in the evening. He left his office exactly 13 minutes ago in order to arrive at the red-light district building in time for his appointment. It was a very important appointment.
On the bed was lying the mistress of the bordello, expecting his punctual appearance. Henry was always on time and nobody liked him due to this distinct lack of fashion.
“Do you have the document?” muffled Tupperware as he lit his pipe and waved the match to its extinction.
The mink-coated whore raised an eyebrow and gestured to her boudoir dresser, top drawer.
He walked over, each step making two distinct knocks, and examined the drawer’s contents with gloved hands. Nestled under the black and red silk lingerie was an envelope with the wax seal of Timothy Naughtiton, a.k.a. Butcher of the Bronx. Tupperware pocketed the envelope and spun on his heels to exit the room.
With his back to the woman and the aperture of the door framing his body, he paused.
“Mrs. Mole, your mind stinks of deception. Now, put down the pistol and slide it on the floor over to me.”
Mrs. Mole was presently kneeling on the bed, her mink coat sliding down one shoulder. In her shaking hands was the Alpha T6700 Laser Fusion Pistol, revision 5.6, with its reticule fixed on the back of Tupperware’s head. Check mate, old man.
“Give it up, Tupperware. You may be a telepath, but I know you skills terminate there. Now, unless you want a hole in your head as large as a hole slightly smaller than the size of your head, you’ll put your hands up in the air and get on your knees.”
But Henry’s pipe was no ordinary pipe. It was a flash bomb! Mole was blinded by the light instantly. Henry, on the other hand, let out a small chuckle and subsequently morphed into a pheasant and flew out of the edifice. Streaks of laser fire followed him out of the window, but to no avail to his assailant.
Damn, the shape shifter had eluded Mrs. Mole once again. But she had one comfort in his disappointing escape…it was pheasant hunting season.
"ma'am"
3 Comments:
So she pulled out her grandfathers ancient 12-gauge-pump action shotgun circa 2000 A.D from the gun locker in her closet. Her grandfather had been a founding member of the NRA or the National Rifle Association and a member of a well known Militia in the Forests of Michigan. These groups were established by 2nd amendment fanatics long before her time, but before he passed away he ensured that his only granddaughter would know her way around guns.
With the need for blood, she dived after the pheasant shooting like a mad woman in the mean streets of Neo-Minneapolis.
How does this sound so far??
iwouv
I will obliterate University Village!!!
I am waiting for the next enstallment Erik, hopefully something that involves rings!!! ;) BTW, how is Ringworld treating you? Have you finished it yet?
Eric, honey, I have something for you. ;)
Holy shit, I must have been tired! How strange. But yes, Erik It was me. Sorry sweetness.
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