Post by kottur on Aug 14, 2013 17:20:54 GMT -8
((Just a quick one-off that I typed up.))
Malcolm Sigurdsson seemed to emit pure confidence in his employer, Pytor Federov, as I sat down to have coffee with him earlier this morning.
Mal had a tight grip on the glass resting on the arm of the chair. He took a sip of the brown spirits, making sure to leave a blank slate across his face. His father had always told him that grimacing was the sign of a light weight; a weak man. There was no one around to make this assumption, but years of habit are hard to break.
He didn’t seem phased by the accusations Federov crashed a Lamborghini into a local school building. He assured me that if such “outlandish” stories were true, there would be more proof, and less hearsay.
He pointed a remote to his stereo, turning up the volume as the music echoed through the mostly empty loft. He would need it loud. His free hand grasped the cold metal of the silenced pistol on the chair’s opposite arm. His hand assumed its usual position around the weapon as he took aim. It was routine; practiced.
He flashed me a brilliant smile; one he’s often seen wearing. He cheekily asked if I had witnessed the “incident” myself, or even a photograph. He knew I hadn’t. “Then why are we even talking about this?” The smile never left his face.
He stared intently at the chair across from him. In it sat a familiar face. The man with the grotesque scar and car battery. The sadistic fellow who sang a botched version of “Danny Boy” as he had his fun. Mal fired once, the pistol’s chirp echoing along with the music. The man was gone; in his place sat another one of his captors. Wolsek.
Sigurdsson made a point to explain that the public loves a “rich and out of control story.”
He fired again. There sat one of Oxford’s security members.
That Federov is simply an excuse for our society to indulge in its “perversion,” as he called it.
Again. Now Oxford himself.
An interesting diversion from all their other problems.
Again, and again, and again. Images of his cell, of his captors, of Oxford’s smirking face seemed to appear with every shot. By the time he had “snapped out of it,” the empty chair in front of him resembled swiss cheese. He sighed, bringing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The gun clattered on the hardwood floor as he looked to the clock. He had a press conference to get to.
He walked over to a mirror. He straightened his jacket, combed his hair, and fixed his tie.
Routine. Practiced.
Malcolm Sigurdsson seemed to emit pure confidence in his employer, Pytor Federov, as I sat down to have coffee with him earlier this morning.
Mal had a tight grip on the glass resting on the arm of the chair. He took a sip of the brown spirits, making sure to leave a blank slate across his face. His father had always told him that grimacing was the sign of a light weight; a weak man. There was no one around to make this assumption, but years of habit are hard to break.
He didn’t seem phased by the accusations Federov crashed a Lamborghini into a local school building. He assured me that if such “outlandish” stories were true, there would be more proof, and less hearsay.
He pointed a remote to his stereo, turning up the volume as the music echoed through the mostly empty loft. He would need it loud. His free hand grasped the cold metal of the silenced pistol on the chair’s opposite arm. His hand assumed its usual position around the weapon as he took aim. It was routine; practiced.
He flashed me a brilliant smile; one he’s often seen wearing. He cheekily asked if I had witnessed the “incident” myself, or even a photograph. He knew I hadn’t. “Then why are we even talking about this?” The smile never left his face.
He stared intently at the chair across from him. In it sat a familiar face. The man with the grotesque scar and car battery. The sadistic fellow who sang a botched version of “Danny Boy” as he had his fun. Mal fired once, the pistol’s chirp echoing along with the music. The man was gone; in his place sat another one of his captors. Wolsek.
Sigurdsson made a point to explain that the public loves a “rich and out of control story.”
He fired again. There sat one of Oxford’s security members.
That Federov is simply an excuse for our society to indulge in its “perversion,” as he called it.
Again. Now Oxford himself.
An interesting diversion from all their other problems.
Again, and again, and again. Images of his cell, of his captors, of Oxford’s smirking face seemed to appear with every shot. By the time he had “snapped out of it,” the empty chair in front of him resembled swiss cheese. He sighed, bringing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The gun clattered on the hardwood floor as he looked to the clock. He had a press conference to get to.
He walked over to a mirror. He straightened his jacket, combed his hair, and fixed his tie.
Routine. Practiced.