Post by Toth on Nov 12, 2005 1:08:40 GMT 1
This is my first original story, there are a lot of spelling errors and grammar is nonexisting.
This is the very first draft, and there will be changes, since I have written this in the last 4 hours and posting it now.
It is a story I begun long ago for as a background story for a character. The game is on hold and the character with it. It is the call game here in this forum which has not begun yet. Here it goes.
The Cuban Connection.
Prologue:
I heard a man outside the door I knew what he wanted, I could feel it and I could hear it in his steps, they had a hard determined sound but the pace was still quick as if he ran. But there was only one they usually travel in pairs, I might be lucky. No sooner than I had finished the thought a rustling of metal came from the outside, there was someone on the ladder.
There was a crash, he had kicked the first door down. The metal yawned the man outside was getting closer. Another door was crushed, my heart began to beat hard. Two doors to go.
I took a sip of whiskey from the glass and placed it on the table next to the empty bottle. Table and a chair was all I needed, and all that was left. The room was empty, the apartment was empty, the whole building was empty, the glory days of this hotel was truly lost. There was no reason to come here but the table, the chair and death.
The man from outside had joined the other in front of the last door…and my whiskey was empty.
Chapter 1
It had been a hard day. Rain had been pouring down all day. There was no work and therefore no rent which led to a angry landlord and no water. I had to make do with whiskey.
Not that this day had been any different from the others…
I sat in my chair at the office and I woke up in my chair at the office.
The clock showed half past three in the afternoon, which meant it was about nine in the morning.
I cursed myself for waking up this early, until I found out why I had been woken.
Riing, the phone rang again. I pulled myself together, coughed a little and took a sip of whiskey. “Yes, Mack Detective Service.” I waited for a bit, I could hear that on the other end they waited for a little slogan or pun of words to follow after, but I had none. My secretary, back then when I had money to pay her or hope of a job so I could pay her, always said to me that I should get one. She had even thought of one something like “We help the“ something “-less”. I never used it, not my style and “We” was a bit too much since there was only one of me.
The fellow on the other end started talking: “I have sent a package to you, meet me tonight at ten in the IBM-building just say your name at the reception. I shall pay you twice the normal rate.” And then he hung up.
Well I hadn’t got any package yet. A sip of whiskey and went to the door, no package there either. Might as well get cleaned up. I took of my coat, shook and put it back on. I had nothing better to do than sit around waiting for a package, so I poured a glass of whiskey and sat in my chair.
It didn’t seem so meaningless to sit in the chair now that I had something to do even though it only was to wait on a package that might come. Well, actually it did, but I still had my whiskey.
I had the usually string of thought; why did I ever become a detective, why did I continue being a detective and when should I stop being a detective. I knew the answers to them all but asked myself them anyway just out of habit. I had become a detective because as a detective I could follow up on the things the police didn’t have time to, who am I kidding: I got kicked of the force because I wouldn’t take a bribe and couldn’t think of anything else. I continued being a detective because I still couldn’t think of anything else. When was I going to stop that was a question I never really had a satisfying answer to. It was usually either soon, when I have enough money or death depending on how much whiskey I had have to drink.
I didn’t come to death because before I got to my second bottle, there was a noise on the stairs and a shot. I had to get up, after all there was shooting in the building and I could always use some target practice. Out of the door, down the corridor there was a man just down the steps to this floor. He had been shot and he was trying to crawl up the stairs. I ran down to the steps.
There was another man, clearly the shooter wrestling something out of the other guy’s hands.
“Hold it!” He turned and ran away, just a punk, but still a punk with a purpose.
I kneeled beside the guy, he was dead. I checked him he was just a messenger, but with dangerous package and of course the package was for me, figures.
Well standing there would do me no good, just as well go down to the bar make an anonymous phone call to the police who would then sweep it under the rug as an accident.
The bar, “Old Blue Eyes”, was in the basement of the building next to mine. As soon as I walked in the owner, Frank, put on the record “Mack the knife” just as he always did, it sound worn and scratching. “This one is getting worn out” he said with a grin in his eye. He was an old buddy of mine I had helped him once with some kids that had made trouble and once with some illegal booze. “Just put it on my tap.” A tap that was growing long very long, I think he had stop counting. He didn’t expect to get the money and he was properly right.
“The usual” he said and poured me a four-double whiskey.
I sat there for a while in the dark corner across the exit and reading the files that had been in the package. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for but they must have been sent to me for a reason. The contained a birth certificate, a map of the east coast with a dot somewhere in the middle of the ocean and a perfect circle around it. There was also a number of different newspaper articles, most surrounding fires unexplained deaths and unsolved crimes most of them to do with murder.
The birth certificate was of a young man 24 years old, hespanic, father unknown, mother of unknown origin.
I finished my drink to the end of “My way” and walked out the door as “New York, New York”, started. I took a breath of the fresh newly polluted “New York”-air, went up to get my gun and down to the subway. It was impossible to get into town in a car and as it were one of my tires were flat. The train was stuffed, I hated stuffed trains but it after all beat walking to the inner New York. I should have brought my shotgun, but I thought that it would be overdoing it and it properly was, but at least I would have had some more room.
My stop, finally. I went out walked the small way from the station to the IBM-building.
I went in I was a little late and it seemed that the receptionist had given up waiting for someone to come.
She said nothing but just sat there waiting.
“I’m Mack” She looked startled, she clearly hadn’t expected me.
She pushed some buttons on the phone. ”He is here” she said with a high end british accent.
“Wait here for a moment.” I did as she said, couldn’t help it.
I had a british teacher at school who was very nice, one of the only ones that was nice at all.
I had always liked the pronunciations of the words, I would liked to have had a british secretary but I guess they all had jobs like this. I think it seemes more proper or international than an American.
“You can go up now” she said taking my out of my childhood memories. She pointed at a solid column that stood out towards the street and went all the way up to what I only could figure was the roof.
I headed towards the elevators beyond the reception desk.
“No. Come along” she walked out of the from the little circled desk and headed towards the column. She had a little ring which fitted right in to an almost invisible engraving. A part of the column moved back and spilt, reviling a room, which I assumed was an elevator. I went in, there was no buttons. The doors shut and I felt it going very fast upwards.
Suddenly it stopped and the doors opened, there was no ding like in ordinary elevator but I went out anyway.
Chapter 2
This is the very first draft, and there will be changes, since I have written this in the last 4 hours and posting it now.
It is a story I begun long ago for as a background story for a character. The game is on hold and the character with it. It is the call game here in this forum which has not begun yet. Here it goes.
The Cuban Connection.
Prologue:
I heard a man outside the door I knew what he wanted, I could feel it and I could hear it in his steps, they had a hard determined sound but the pace was still quick as if he ran. But there was only one they usually travel in pairs, I might be lucky. No sooner than I had finished the thought a rustling of metal came from the outside, there was someone on the ladder.
There was a crash, he had kicked the first door down. The metal yawned the man outside was getting closer. Another door was crushed, my heart began to beat hard. Two doors to go.
I took a sip of whiskey from the glass and placed it on the table next to the empty bottle. Table and a chair was all I needed, and all that was left. The room was empty, the apartment was empty, the whole building was empty, the glory days of this hotel was truly lost. There was no reason to come here but the table, the chair and death.
The man from outside had joined the other in front of the last door…and my whiskey was empty.
Chapter 1
It had been a hard day. Rain had been pouring down all day. There was no work and therefore no rent which led to a angry landlord and no water. I had to make do with whiskey.
Not that this day had been any different from the others…
I sat in my chair at the office and I woke up in my chair at the office.
The clock showed half past three in the afternoon, which meant it was about nine in the morning.
I cursed myself for waking up this early, until I found out why I had been woken.
Riing, the phone rang again. I pulled myself together, coughed a little and took a sip of whiskey. “Yes, Mack Detective Service.” I waited for a bit, I could hear that on the other end they waited for a little slogan or pun of words to follow after, but I had none. My secretary, back then when I had money to pay her or hope of a job so I could pay her, always said to me that I should get one. She had even thought of one something like “We help the“ something “-less”. I never used it, not my style and “We” was a bit too much since there was only one of me.
The fellow on the other end started talking: “I have sent a package to you, meet me tonight at ten in the IBM-building just say your name at the reception. I shall pay you twice the normal rate.” And then he hung up.
Well I hadn’t got any package yet. A sip of whiskey and went to the door, no package there either. Might as well get cleaned up. I took of my coat, shook and put it back on. I had nothing better to do than sit around waiting for a package, so I poured a glass of whiskey and sat in my chair.
It didn’t seem so meaningless to sit in the chair now that I had something to do even though it only was to wait on a package that might come. Well, actually it did, but I still had my whiskey.
I had the usually string of thought; why did I ever become a detective, why did I continue being a detective and when should I stop being a detective. I knew the answers to them all but asked myself them anyway just out of habit. I had become a detective because as a detective I could follow up on the things the police didn’t have time to, who am I kidding: I got kicked of the force because I wouldn’t take a bribe and couldn’t think of anything else. I continued being a detective because I still couldn’t think of anything else. When was I going to stop that was a question I never really had a satisfying answer to. It was usually either soon, when I have enough money or death depending on how much whiskey I had have to drink.
I didn’t come to death because before I got to my second bottle, there was a noise on the stairs and a shot. I had to get up, after all there was shooting in the building and I could always use some target practice. Out of the door, down the corridor there was a man just down the steps to this floor. He had been shot and he was trying to crawl up the stairs. I ran down to the steps.
There was another man, clearly the shooter wrestling something out of the other guy’s hands.
“Hold it!” He turned and ran away, just a punk, but still a punk with a purpose.
I kneeled beside the guy, he was dead. I checked him he was just a messenger, but with dangerous package and of course the package was for me, figures.
Well standing there would do me no good, just as well go down to the bar make an anonymous phone call to the police who would then sweep it under the rug as an accident.
The bar, “Old Blue Eyes”, was in the basement of the building next to mine. As soon as I walked in the owner, Frank, put on the record “Mack the knife” just as he always did, it sound worn and scratching. “This one is getting worn out” he said with a grin in his eye. He was an old buddy of mine I had helped him once with some kids that had made trouble and once with some illegal booze. “Just put it on my tap.” A tap that was growing long very long, I think he had stop counting. He didn’t expect to get the money and he was properly right.
“The usual” he said and poured me a four-double whiskey.
I sat there for a while in the dark corner across the exit and reading the files that had been in the package. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for but they must have been sent to me for a reason. The contained a birth certificate, a map of the east coast with a dot somewhere in the middle of the ocean and a perfect circle around it. There was also a number of different newspaper articles, most surrounding fires unexplained deaths and unsolved crimes most of them to do with murder.
The birth certificate was of a young man 24 years old, hespanic, father unknown, mother of unknown origin.
I finished my drink to the end of “My way” and walked out the door as “New York, New York”, started. I took a breath of the fresh newly polluted “New York”-air, went up to get my gun and down to the subway. It was impossible to get into town in a car and as it were one of my tires were flat. The train was stuffed, I hated stuffed trains but it after all beat walking to the inner New York. I should have brought my shotgun, but I thought that it would be overdoing it and it properly was, but at least I would have had some more room.
My stop, finally. I went out walked the small way from the station to the IBM-building.
I went in I was a little late and it seemed that the receptionist had given up waiting for someone to come.
She said nothing but just sat there waiting.
“I’m Mack” She looked startled, she clearly hadn’t expected me.
She pushed some buttons on the phone. ”He is here” she said with a high end british accent.
“Wait here for a moment.” I did as she said, couldn’t help it.
I had a british teacher at school who was very nice, one of the only ones that was nice at all.
I had always liked the pronunciations of the words, I would liked to have had a british secretary but I guess they all had jobs like this. I think it seemes more proper or international than an American.
“You can go up now” she said taking my out of my childhood memories. She pointed at a solid column that stood out towards the street and went all the way up to what I only could figure was the roof.
I headed towards the elevators beyond the reception desk.
“No. Come along” she walked out of the from the little circled desk and headed towards the column. She had a little ring which fitted right in to an almost invisible engraving. A part of the column moved back and spilt, reviling a room, which I assumed was an elevator. I went in, there was no buttons. The doors shut and I felt it going very fast upwards.
Suddenly it stopped and the doors opened, there was no ding like in ordinary elevator but I went out anyway.
Chapter 2