A little creative writing I've wound up doing...Fun fun...
Disclaimer: This was done in Microsoft Word so some of the symbols (quotation marks, dashes, etc) may go screwy. I'm too lazy to go through this all and correct them, so if it happens I apologize. Please also excuse all of the following as it is the product of my terribly warped, strange mind.
It should, for all intents and purposes, have been a dark and stormy night. There should have been two figures standing, periodically silhouetted against the murky gloom of the dark clouds by the lightning. Something very, incredibly evil should have happened.
Two delayed flights, one slightly problematic situation in the airport which involved a one-sided dialogue along the lines of, “Sir, there is no way I am letting you on that plane with a submachine gun, no matter how much extra comfort it affords you”, and several pieces of baggage that had found themselves on a multitude of continents which, to the owners dismay, could not be labeled as his current location.
The afternoon sun in Winchesterbrightonfieldview, a very small and little-known rural town in Britain, kept the grassy hills and dirt roads fairly warm and dry. The only sound that could be heard for miles was the occasional, very old car sputtering along and two men arguing on a hilltop. One was tall, skinny and dressed in a manner that could be described as “fabulously well-off”. The other was short, hunched over and not altogether pleasing to the eyes.
“Take an earlier flight, I says,” the smaller man croaked furiously. “Less problems’ll get in the way, I says. No, don’t listen to me, damn it. I’m the hired help.” The taller man rolls his eyes in response, clearly no more pleased with their misfortune than his sidekick.
“How was I supposed to know there’d be so many problems with the airlines, Number Five?” he asked, his voice coming out in what he had hoped to sound like a growl.
“You should’ve known better than tryin’ to gets here the night of the weather you was looking fors,” he slurred, adding, “Eeeedyot.” The taller man raised an eyebrow, a look of confusion on his face.
“A what?”
“You know the insult part of me brain didn’t come out so hot,” Number Five admitted reluctantly.
“Oh.”
“Anyway, fine, I feel bad for clockin’ ups all of this overtime so I’m going right aheads and getting this ready,” Number Five informed the other man. “First you gots to draw the sigil of angry beasties and things of a generally unpleasant natures, yeah? Then light the candle of woe and despair and ouch, right?” He sauntered over to the edge of a large, elaborate symbol that he had carved into the ground earlier. The taller man sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose every so slightly.
“Do you smell that, Five?” he asked, looking extremely disgusted.
“Sorry, sir, airplane foods does that to me.” Ignoring his cohort’s reply, the man continued to sniff the air. He was a bit concerned now. Five, he recalled, had hit something when carving up the earth to make the necessary sigil of evil and whatnot and the stench had gotten increasingly worse since then. Smells like sewage, he thought, and maybe a bit of fertilizer or something like that. Five had arranged the candles and was preparing to strike a match. It was at this point, as the match ignited, that the necessary two plus two equation came to the proper answer in the man’s head.
“OHSHI-” the man began to cry as the small flame of the match quickly erupted into a raging inferno. The force of the explosion sent him hurtling through the air at a remarkable speed for any projectile much less a natural gas-propelled man in a suit. He would’ve gone on for a solid mile or two had a large metal sign not impeded his progress. He hit the sign hard, with his face, and fell to the ground. Cursing his bad luck, he got up and brush the dirt and singed pieces of what he could only begin to hope was not formerly known as Number Five.
“Caution: be wary of gas lines and other natural gases. Smoking, barbequing and recreational arson are strictly prohibited,” he said, reading the sign aloud. “Recreational arson? Those British think of everything these days.” He sighed, surveyed the damage and, reaching into his suit pocket, produced a cell phone.
“Hello Mr. Stromwell, what can I do for you sir?” answered a female voice after a few rings.
“Use my corporate credit card to purchase me a private jet, hire a pilot and get me the hell out of here within the next hour or so,” he responded, coolly. “I’d like to get out of here before I find myself in any unwanted legal trouble.” And then he hung up, knowing full well he’d get picked up within the hour, the police would arrive about two hours later, baffled, and three hours later no one would really care as to what happened here other than Number Five, who was no longer among the living.
It should, for all intents and purposes, have been a dark and stormy night. There should have been two figures standing, periodically silhouetted against the murky gloom of the dark clouds by the lightning. Something very, incredibly evil should have happened.
Two delayed flights, one slightly problematic situation in the airport which involved a one-sided dialogue along the lines of, “Sir, there is no way I am letting you on that plane with a submachine gun, no matter how much extra comfort it affords you”, and several pieces of baggage that had found themselves on a multitude of continents which, to the owners dismay, could not be labeled as his current location.
The afternoon sun in Winchesterbrightonfieldview, a very small and little-known rural town in Britain, kept the grassy hills and dirt roads fairly warm and dry. The only sound that could be heard for miles was the occasional, very old car sputtering along and two men arguing on a hilltop. One was tall, skinny and dressed in a manner that could be described as “fabulously well-off”. The other was short, hunched over and not altogether pleasing to the eyes.
“Take an earlier flight, I says,” the smaller man croaked furiously. “Less problems’ll get in the way, I says. No, don’t listen to me, damn it. I’m the hired help.” The taller man rolls his eyes in response, clearly no more pleased with their misfortune than his sidekick.
“How was I supposed to know there’d be so many problems with the airlines, Number Five?” he asked, his voice coming out in what he had hoped to sound like a growl.
“You should’ve known better than tryin’ to gets here the night of the weather you was looking fors,” he slurred, adding, “Eeeedyot.” The taller man raised an eyebrow, a look of confusion on his face.
“A what?”
“You know the insult part of me brain didn’t come out so hot,” Number Five admitted reluctantly.
“Oh.”
“Anyway, fine, I feel bad for clockin’ ups all of this overtime so I’m going right aheads and getting this ready,” Number Five informed the other man. “First you gots to draw the sigil of angry beasties and things of a generally unpleasant natures, yeah? Then light the candle of woe and despair and ouch, right?” He sauntered over to the edge of a large, elaborate symbol that he had carved into the ground earlier. The taller man sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose every so slightly.
“Do you smell that, Five?” he asked, looking extremely disgusted.
“Sorry, sir, airplane foods does that to me.” Ignoring his cohort’s reply, the man continued to sniff the air. He was a bit concerned now. Five, he recalled, had hit something when carving up the earth to make the necessary sigil of evil and whatnot and the stench had gotten increasingly worse since then. Smells like sewage, he thought, and maybe a bit of fertilizer or something like that. Five had arranged the candles and was preparing to strike a match. It was at this point, as the match ignited, that the necessary two plus two equation came to the proper answer in the man’s head.
“OHSHI-” the man began to cry as the small flame of the match quickly erupted into a raging inferno. The force of the explosion sent him hurtling through the air at a remarkable speed for any projectile much less a natural gas-propelled man in a suit. He would’ve gone on for a solid mile or two had a large metal sign not impeded his progress. He hit the sign hard, with his face, and fell to the ground. Cursing his bad luck, he got up and brush the dirt and singed pieces of what he could only begin to hope was not formerly known as Number Five.
“Caution: be wary of gas lines and other natural gases. Smoking, barbequing and recreational arson are strictly prohibited,” he said, reading the sign aloud. “Recreational arson? Those British think of everything these days.” He sighed, surveyed the damage and, reaching into his suit pocket, produced a cell phone.
“Hello Mr. Stromwell, what can I do for you sir?” answered a female voice after a few rings.
“Use my corporate credit card to purchase me a private jet, hire a pilot and get me the hell out of here within the next hour or so,” he responded, coolly. “I’d like to get out of here before I find myself in any unwanted legal trouble.” And then he hung up, knowing full well he’d get picked up within the hour, the police would arrive about two hours later, baffled, and three hours later no one would really care as to what happened here other than Number Five, who was no longer among the living.