Making friends
Johan was in a temper, and Johan in a temper was a dangerous animal. For the moment, he was working off his frustrations by shooting clay pigeons with a rocket launcher; his friends had drawn straws, and the loser now had the unfortunate task of working the clay pigeon launcher while the rest made themselves scarce.
Of course, they were not his "friends" in the proper sense of the word. Johan was all too well aware that he had no real friends: they feared him too much for that. He'd acquired a few through outright intimidation, and he kept those close by because they were useful. The rest he'd thought to engage as equals, genuinely extending the hand of friendship, but one and all they had, within a day or two of knowing him, developed that very annoying habit of acting as if he would boil them in oil if they so much as breathed on him.
Above him, a clay pigeon shattered into powder.
Boris was different. Boris had looked him in the eye and remained unperturbed. Johan had tried a number of times to approach the man, but had failed to obtain more than a few polite words. Johan had come to the conclusion that Boris, for some inexplicable reason, disapproved of him. It was really quite mysterious, but it fired Johan up with an obsessive desire to get closer to Boris, to make friends ... real friends, not another one of the sycophants whom Johan kept under his thumb for his amusement.
He'd even tried to approach Boris' wife, but she, like everyone else, was clearly uncomfortable in Johan's presence.
And then, this afternoon, Johan had had the opportunity to save that woman's life. And he hadn't even had to engineer the situation.
Grateful though they were, Boris and Fiona had not unbent towards him; Boris continued to give Johan that same fish-eyed stare, which Johan had to confess was quite frightening in its own right. Yes, Boris frightened Johan, though Johan took care not to show it. It was ... different, to fear rather than be feared. It filled Johan with an overwhelming sense of loneliness.
Of course, they were not his "friends" in the proper sense of the word. Johan was all too well aware that he had no real friends: they feared him too much for that. He'd acquired a few through outright intimidation, and he kept those close by because they were useful. The rest he'd thought to engage as equals, genuinely extending the hand of friendship, but one and all they had, within a day or two of knowing him, developed that very annoying habit of acting as if he would boil them in oil if they so much as breathed on him.
Above him, a clay pigeon shattered into powder.
Boris was different. Boris had looked him in the eye and remained unperturbed. Johan had tried a number of times to approach the man, but had failed to obtain more than a few polite words. Johan had come to the conclusion that Boris, for some inexplicable reason, disapproved of him. It was really quite mysterious, but it fired Johan up with an obsessive desire to get closer to Boris, to make friends ... real friends, not another one of the sycophants whom Johan kept under his thumb for his amusement.
He'd even tried to approach Boris' wife, but she, like everyone else, was clearly uncomfortable in Johan's presence.
And then, this afternoon, Johan had had the opportunity to save that woman's life. And he hadn't even had to engineer the situation.
Grateful though they were, Boris and Fiona had not unbent towards him; Boris continued to give Johan that same fish-eyed stare, which Johan had to confess was quite frightening in its own right. Yes, Boris frightened Johan, though Johan took care not to show it. It was ... different, to fear rather than be feared. It filled Johan with an overwhelming sense of loneliness.