The Watch on the Wrist of God - Chapter 4
From Morton Lennemound's tainted perspective, Samael Keshtar's security force could very well be concidered a "fucking militia". Rumors abound the eighth floor suggested that he had been recruited by Harvey Bergidan as a security consultant, who's previous experience included security detail on a Israeli compound. Even more rumors claimed that Keshtar had held off a convoy of several tanks at that very compound with only four soldiers and a few hand grenades. Such rumors, of course, quickly dimmed to a sudden silence when the consultant suddenly came into the area ; often, he did so, before anyone even noticed and left with the same phantom presence.
At this given moment, surrounded by the many monitors that were fed live video from the Eyes of The Palace, Samael Keshtar was by no means a phantom, nor was he sneaking up on anyone, atleast not on foot. Over the five years of being security consultant, he had somehow perfected the art of knowing everything that was happening on every monitor all at once, without directly looking at it. It baffled his cohorts, even his superior Bergidan, but no one asked him how. None of the mice asked the owl how he could turn his head all the way around, they just accepted it and worked with it.
The security consultant was sitting behind his small, metal desk with fingers laced together resting on his nose. The only article on the olive green of the desk was a glass ashtray, giving refuge to a burning cigarette that was nearly finished. A line of ash marked it's former substance in a grey line, from where Samael had lit it and let it alone for the past several moments. He did not smoke the cigarette itself ; the consultant prefered the subtle taste of it in the air, instead of filtered into his lungs. Beyond the white haze that hovered around him, the monitors all showed key areas through The Palace. Some cameras were poised on the stereo equipment, the computers, even the fountains that held no value to the random shoplifter. These were the places where Samael had known the enemy to dwell - in the spots least suspected.
The handheld radio on his belt began to vibrate against his hip. When Samael was watching the Eyes of The Palace, within his smokey office, he prefered to set the communications radio on silent. Often, the security force would just transmit random information through it that was destracting and never really intended for his ears. But when something big, something juicy, hit the fan in one shit-coating explosion of defacation, the option to vibrate his radio was available. It had only gone off three times in his employment within The Palace - and each of those three times were delt with using armed force.
On the second vibrate, Samael reached down and slipped the radio off his belt. Leaning back in his chair, eyes never leaving the monitors, he raised it up and said one word. " Crecendo. "
" Crecendo rising, sir. " Came the reply through the small speaker. It was Johnny " Green " Gables, his second in command. The kid had constantly been in competition with Alex Clark, a war movie addict who thought he personally could have saved Private Ryan if he were Tom Hanks. Bullshit, Samael thought.
" Lennemound? " Samael spoke again, focusing his gaze on screen three hundred and twelve : Dillard's gunshack. The kiosk was abandoned now ; various firearms unsupervised, except for the random teenager that stopped for a glipse with a beaming smile.
" Roger that, " Gables said, " We've got Mr Dillard wondering about some hostage situation on floor five. I advised him there was nothing wrong, but he seems to think he should bear arms and help us. "
Samael exhaled deeply. On screen twelve, he could see Johnny Gables and two other security people talking with Mr Dillard at the security checkpoint on the first floor. It wasn't hard to spot Gables' large disposition, as compared to the scrawny one belonging to the old southern red neck. " Advise Mr Dillard that we are currently handling the situation on our own, and that he should get back to his fucking kiosk before more such situations happen. "
The video of Gables seemed to take a step back, before he turned away from the others and spoke in a whisper into the radio. " Sir, is there a situation on floor five? I can handle it, and I highly advise against sending Clark into a hostage situation - he'll make a grenade out of a Mr Potatoehead, sir. " Samael could hear the jealousy in his voice, at the fact that his rival might be where the action is. It made the consultant smile ; such adversaries became top of their class, eventually, unless they blew each other's brains out first.
" There is no situation, Gables. " Samael stated with impatience, dispite his smile. He slipped another cigarette out of the pack in his breast pocket and set it into the now inactive ashtray. The worm of ashes crumbled at the new addition. " But feed the old man what he wants to hear, we've got bigger things to worry about. Did he give Lennemound a firearm? The camera was blocked by civilians for most of their discussion. " Even high atop the ceiling, with 200x zoom, security cameras couldn't see through a constant stream of bobbing, walking, talking, decision-making heads.
In the video feed, Gables had a chat with Dillard. Hands began to move around, heads nodded. Samael lit the cigarette and let it burn as he waited.
" Roger that, Sir, Lennemound currently has a .45 semi automatic pistol. Standard issue US army regulation firearm, capable of - "
" I fucking know what it's capable of, Gables. " He cut his second in command off over the radio. In the monitor, 'Green' looked upset. " What we dont know is what Lennemound is capable of. Escort Mr Dillard back to his gunshack, me and Clark are going to intercept the pleasent Mr Morton Lennemound. " He swooped his chair around to face the back wall of even more monitors. Number seventy seven ; elevator A. It normally offered a warped view, concidering it was hidden in the control panel inside the elevator wall, but it usually proved useful - most people never suspected it. Until now, that is. All he saw on the screen was static. Mother Fucker.
" Crecendo, sir? " Gables' voice trembled with excitement, or with distress. Either one, Samael didnt have time to analyze. He stood up, putting out the cigarette and scooping his shoulder holster off the chairback. The dark grip of a Desert Eagle gleamed in the light of the hundreds of screens, tucked deep into the worn leather holster.
" Cre-fucking-cendo, Gables. "
As Morton Lennemound boarded the elevator, the weight of the handgun under his belt feeling both tense and relaxing. It pulled his belt taunt against him, but it also seemed to sooth him, as he stood still and waited for the glass elevator doors to close. Pressing number eight on control panel, he slipped in his access card to be granted entry beyond the consumer floors. Like a slowed down bullet, he began his ascention into his destiny, and into the true future of the Bergidan Empire.
While Morton jammed a pencap into the little camera hole in the panel, Tom Wilson was entering the first floor of the Palace.
Wilson, not wanting to be there in the first place, was followed by Drake Malibur (who kept his hands stuffed in the pockets of his trenchcoat, silently) and, eventually, Hank Hanson and his son and escort. All five of them went through the initial metal detector at the security checkpoint, the very same one that Gables had escorted Dillard away from seconds before with images of a promotion in his distant mind. It was because of this distant forgetfullness that made Johnny Gables forget to turn on the detector again, concidering he had shut it down when Dillard had initially ran to him with a rifle, demanding that he could help in the grand old shootout on floor five.
It was also, because of this distant forgetfulness, that Drake was able to smuggle in his old service handgun from Veitnam under his ragged trenchcoat.
At this given moment, surrounded by the many monitors that were fed live video from the Eyes of The Palace, Samael Keshtar was by no means a phantom, nor was he sneaking up on anyone, atleast not on foot. Over the five years of being security consultant, he had somehow perfected the art of knowing everything that was happening on every monitor all at once, without directly looking at it. It baffled his cohorts, even his superior Bergidan, but no one asked him how. None of the mice asked the owl how he could turn his head all the way around, they just accepted it and worked with it.
The security consultant was sitting behind his small, metal desk with fingers laced together resting on his nose. The only article on the olive green of the desk was a glass ashtray, giving refuge to a burning cigarette that was nearly finished. A line of ash marked it's former substance in a grey line, from where Samael had lit it and let it alone for the past several moments. He did not smoke the cigarette itself ; the consultant prefered the subtle taste of it in the air, instead of filtered into his lungs. Beyond the white haze that hovered around him, the monitors all showed key areas through The Palace. Some cameras were poised on the stereo equipment, the computers, even the fountains that held no value to the random shoplifter. These were the places where Samael had known the enemy to dwell - in the spots least suspected.
The handheld radio on his belt began to vibrate against his hip. When Samael was watching the Eyes of The Palace, within his smokey office, he prefered to set the communications radio on silent. Often, the security force would just transmit random information through it that was destracting and never really intended for his ears. But when something big, something juicy, hit the fan in one shit-coating explosion of defacation, the option to vibrate his radio was available. It had only gone off three times in his employment within The Palace - and each of those three times were delt with using armed force.
On the second vibrate, Samael reached down and slipped the radio off his belt. Leaning back in his chair, eyes never leaving the monitors, he raised it up and said one word. " Crecendo. "
" Crecendo rising, sir. " Came the reply through the small speaker. It was Johnny " Green " Gables, his second in command. The kid had constantly been in competition with Alex Clark, a war movie addict who thought he personally could have saved Private Ryan if he were Tom Hanks. Bullshit, Samael thought.
" Lennemound? " Samael spoke again, focusing his gaze on screen three hundred and twelve : Dillard's gunshack. The kiosk was abandoned now ; various firearms unsupervised, except for the random teenager that stopped for a glipse with a beaming smile.
" Roger that, " Gables said, " We've got Mr Dillard wondering about some hostage situation on floor five. I advised him there was nothing wrong, but he seems to think he should bear arms and help us. "
Samael exhaled deeply. On screen twelve, he could see Johnny Gables and two other security people talking with Mr Dillard at the security checkpoint on the first floor. It wasn't hard to spot Gables' large disposition, as compared to the scrawny one belonging to the old southern red neck. " Advise Mr Dillard that we are currently handling the situation on our own, and that he should get back to his fucking kiosk before more such situations happen. "
The video of Gables seemed to take a step back, before he turned away from the others and spoke in a whisper into the radio. " Sir, is there a situation on floor five? I can handle it, and I highly advise against sending Clark into a hostage situation - he'll make a grenade out of a Mr Potatoehead, sir. " Samael could hear the jealousy in his voice, at the fact that his rival might be where the action is. It made the consultant smile ; such adversaries became top of their class, eventually, unless they blew each other's brains out first.
" There is no situation, Gables. " Samael stated with impatience, dispite his smile. He slipped another cigarette out of the pack in his breast pocket and set it into the now inactive ashtray. The worm of ashes crumbled at the new addition. " But feed the old man what he wants to hear, we've got bigger things to worry about. Did he give Lennemound a firearm? The camera was blocked by civilians for most of their discussion. " Even high atop the ceiling, with 200x zoom, security cameras couldn't see through a constant stream of bobbing, walking, talking, decision-making heads.
In the video feed, Gables had a chat with Dillard. Hands began to move around, heads nodded. Samael lit the cigarette and let it burn as he waited.
" Roger that, Sir, Lennemound currently has a .45 semi automatic pistol. Standard issue US army regulation firearm, capable of - "
" I fucking know what it's capable of, Gables. " He cut his second in command off over the radio. In the monitor, 'Green' looked upset. " What we dont know is what Lennemound is capable of. Escort Mr Dillard back to his gunshack, me and Clark are going to intercept the pleasent Mr Morton Lennemound. " He swooped his chair around to face the back wall of even more monitors. Number seventy seven ; elevator A. It normally offered a warped view, concidering it was hidden in the control panel inside the elevator wall, but it usually proved useful - most people never suspected it. Until now, that is. All he saw on the screen was static. Mother Fucker.
" Crecendo, sir? " Gables' voice trembled with excitement, or with distress. Either one, Samael didnt have time to analyze. He stood up, putting out the cigarette and scooping his shoulder holster off the chairback. The dark grip of a Desert Eagle gleamed in the light of the hundreds of screens, tucked deep into the worn leather holster.
" Cre-fucking-cendo, Gables. "
As Morton Lennemound boarded the elevator, the weight of the handgun under his belt feeling both tense and relaxing. It pulled his belt taunt against him, but it also seemed to sooth him, as he stood still and waited for the glass elevator doors to close. Pressing number eight on control panel, he slipped in his access card to be granted entry beyond the consumer floors. Like a slowed down bullet, he began his ascention into his destiny, and into the true future of the Bergidan Empire.
While Morton jammed a pencap into the little camera hole in the panel, Tom Wilson was entering the first floor of the Palace.
Wilson, not wanting to be there in the first place, was followed by Drake Malibur (who kept his hands stuffed in the pockets of his trenchcoat, silently) and, eventually, Hank Hanson and his son and escort. All five of them went through the initial metal detector at the security checkpoint, the very same one that Gables had escorted Dillard away from seconds before with images of a promotion in his distant mind. It was because of this distant forgetfullness that made Johnny Gables forget to turn on the detector again, concidering he had shut it down when Dillard had initially ran to him with a rifle, demanding that he could help in the grand old shootout on floor five.
It was also, because of this distant forgetfulness, that Drake was able to smuggle in his old service handgun from Veitnam under his ragged trenchcoat.